


Novel

by lifeonmars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Editor Sherlock, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Peter Pan References, Red Riding Hood Elements, Slow Burn, Storytelling, Writer John, Writer's Block, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:12:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/pseuds/lifeonmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has writer's block. Sherlock Holmes is the world's best consulting editor. </p><p>Whether John can write a book is another story entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this story about writer's block nearly two years ago. And then I got a little bit... stuck. Writing about writer's block. Whoops.
> 
> Disclaimers: This work is a WIP, but it's outlined in its entirety. I can't promise a regular posting schedule, but I'll do my best to finish. As I post this, tags may be added. Ratings may change. I will warn for potential hazards, but the forecast is slow burn romance with a slight chance of crack. If you're reading along, thanks in advance for your bravery. (And your patience.)
> 
> I'd like to thank all the various friends and betas who have listened to me talk about this fic for eons. I'd also like to apologize to them, because I'm not done yet! I still need you guys. Sorry. 
> 
> Finally, this story is meant to be fun. I don't pretend to know anything about the real world of publishing, but if you don't mind suspending reality, come on in. (I myself know a little bit about suspending reality. There will be plenty of that.)

* * *

New Blank Document.

The cursor blinks a steady, maddening rhythm not unlike the dripping of water. Soldiers have withered under lesser conditions. Solitary confinement, that's what this is. Alone on this empty, vacuous page with no company but the fidgeting whine inside his brain. An idea. Just one fucking idea. Something. Anything. No means of escape or company other than his own uncooperative failure of a mind.

 _I hate this_ , John types, and deletes it.

 _Fuck you_. Backspace, backspace, backspace. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

The cursor blinks mockingly. Additional words refuse to push it along the empty line.

Tea, John thinks. I need tea. Are there biscuits? Probably not. _Biscuits_ , he types. The word looks ridiculous. Whoever coined the spelling of the word 'biscuit' was clearly an utter troll. Right, let's just take some vowels and toss them at the end of the second syllable and pretend they make the right fucking noise, because the English language makes so much fucking sense and for some reason it's John's job to wrangle it into submission.

He deletes “biscuits.”

The screen glares at him. _Fuck_ , he types again, and the word echoes into an unyielding vault of white.

* * *

“How’s your book going?”

“Yeah. Um, good. Very good.”

“You haven’t written a word, have you?”

John clears his throat. “Um,” he says.

“You don’t have to do this to yourself, John.”

John stares fixedly at the notebook in his therapist’s hands. He imagines she’s writing something like _Generalised Anxiety_. No, _Chronic Depression_. Hmm, no, that letter looks like a T.

“Why not find locum work? You’re a qualified doctor, you’d have the stability of a workplace, a regular schedule. It might be good for you.”

He doesn’t say that locum work would feel like shovelling soil into the open grave of his career.

“I should be writing,” he says, instead.

“There’s that word ‘should’ again,” says Ella, crossing her legs and continuing to scribble. “We keep returning to the word ‘should.’”

It’s not the only word John keeps returning to. “Pointless” seems to sum up the past thirty-seven minutes quite nicely. “Yes, well. It’d be great if I didn’t feel obligated, wouldn’t it? But then I suppose I wouldn’t be in here.”

“That’s very much the point.”

John sits up and rolls his shoulder. It gets quite stiff in the rain these days. “Right,” he says, to the sound of the pencil scratching on paper. Ella’s notebook slips on her knee, the surface tipping toward him. _Trust issues_ , he reads.

True enough. But then, he has no reason to trust anyone who doesn’t understand what it’s like.

* * *

_Jefferson Hope saluted his commanding officer. The helicopter_

No.

_The morning of the final airstrike_

Delete.

_Private Hope gripped the barrel of his assault rifle. The desert sun_

  
John’s laptop wants to know if he’d like to close the document without saving. John wonders if his laptop has any memory of the last three hundred times he’s said no to that question.

He shuts it with a noise that pushes breath from his lungs. His neck aches. He can hear the woman in the flat below slamming her door and shouting something. A lorry rumbles past. The walls in this building are too thin, stretched over noises they can’t hope to contain. He can’t afford better, but then, it won’t be long before he can’t even afford this.

The laptop makes a resigned whirr as the fan slows and shuts off. The panic quietly settling in John’s chest is the loudest sound of all.

* * *

“Five years,” Mike Stamford says. Raindrops slide down the window of the Criterion coffee shop.

“How are the kids?” John says, smiling grimly over his half-full espresso.

Mike gives John a sad grin and a flash of familiar dimples. “Five years since you’ve finished a manuscript, John. Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m well aware,” John says, taking a sip. “The kids, though?”

“Fine.” Mike sips his own coffee. “Thanks. They’re fine.” He sighs. “And the last time you wrote anything, my oldest was in nappies, and now she’s half done with primary school. I want to help, John.”

Mike’s expression is so kind that John feels his face heat. Mike should yell at him, should have it out with John right here in the coffee shop for his utter failure to produce a book. He should be ordering John to get a bloody job, and then he should delete John from his contacts file and fill the slot with a client who actually writes for a living. John deserves it. But Mike, damn his loyalty and his stupidly good heart, continues to take John to coffee every month or two, and prods at him with genuine sympathy. It’s maddening.

John clears his throat awkwardly. “I appreciate it, Mike, really. But I’ve said before. I think you’re wasting your time.”

Mike studies John from his usual chair, at their usual table. “This is it, then, at long last? Are you looking for another job?”

“I’m -- thinking about it, actually.”

It’s not so much a lie as it is a half-truth. Yes, John is thinking about it, but only in the way that a man headed for the gallows might ponder a loop of rope.

Mike raises his eyebrows, sits back in his chair. "John," he says quietly, "I've been your agent for eight years. You need to write."

“I don’t need anything, Mike. I can get by on residuals from the Afghanistan series.”

“Residuals,” Mike chuckles in disbelief. “Are you some sort of monk? No offence, but there can’t be much coming in these days.”

John looks out the window at a particularly fat drop sliding over the “O” in Criterion. “I get by.”

“You’re the stubbornest bastard I’ve ever met, John Watson.”

John snorts. “And you’re the most persistent.”

The ensuing pause only serves to amplify the patter of raindrops and hiss of tires on the wet street outside.

“Look,” Mike says. “I’ve been waiting for the right time for this, and I think I’ve waited long enough. I’m going to call in a favour on your behalf.”

“What are you on about?”

“I can help you,” Mike says, and his voice drops into a surprisingly serious register. “Or at least, I believe I can put you in touch with someone who can.”

“Mike --”

“Nope,” Mike says. “I don’t want to hear that you don’t need it.”

John sets down his cup. “If you’re going to give me the name of a therapist, I’m way ahead of you. I see her on Thursday mornings.”

Another sad, dimpled grin. “No.”

John’s tone is harsher than he intends, but he can’t seem to soften it. “I don’t see why you won’t take my word for it. I’m fine, Mike. Really. You don’t have to keep buying me lunch in hopes of shaking a book out of me. I’ve told my story. I haven’t got another.”

Mike takes a long sip of his coffee.

"When we met," he says at last, "you had a bit of a limp. Only sometimes. Mostly when you were between books. It nearly went away entirely when you were finishing _Three Continents._ "

John swallows.

Mike nods in the direction of an object resting against the sill of the coffee shop window. "That's your cane, isn't it? You came early so I wouldn't see you use it."

"Army injury," John says curtly. "You know that. Much worse when it rains --"

"Bollocks," Mike interrupts. “You know damn well why you’re limping.”

The sip of espresso in John’s mouth turns bitter. Or perhaps this is what pity tastes like.

“A while back I did a favour for someone very high up in the British Government,” Mike says. “He owes me one, and he’s got a connection I think you could use.”

John blinks. “You realise I’m a writer, not James Bond.”

Mike chuckles. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

John’s mouth lifts wryly. “What’d you do, Mike, ensure that some earl’s daughter got her children’s book published?”

“No, actually.” Mike straightens his tie. “I ensured that a particularly... sensitive memoir didn’t get published at all.”

John absorbs this. “That’s far more exciting than I’d imagined your job to be.”

Mike laughs. “Trust me, it wasn’t that exciting. It was just a matter of a few well-placed calls. End result, I’m on the good books of a man named Holmes. His younger brother is the one I’d like to put you in touch with.”

“Holmes.” John’s brow furrows. “Not Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah, heard of him, have you?”

“Some sort of specialist in the publishing world? I’ve just heard the name.”

“Consulting editor,” Mike corrects.

“Consulting editor?”

“Sherlock Holmes is the man behind many great novels, only you’d never know it. When a gifted writer is out of their depth, they call Sherlock. His services don’t come cheap, I can tell you that.”

“What does he do, exactly?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Mike admits. “He’s known for being something of a genius. And you didn’t hear it from me, but his track record for assisting on Booker Prize winners is frighteningly good.”

“Jesus.” John rubs his forehead. “You can’t seriously think that a guy like that would work with me.”

“He’ll have to, at least for a session or two,” Mike says. “His brother offered to foot the bill for a few of Sherlock’s consulting sessions, if I picked the writer.”

“Mike.” John leans forward. “Honestly, it’s a lovely thought, but you’re missing a critical part of the equation. To employ an editor I need a book. I don’t have a fucking book right now.”

“You’re a brilliant writer, John,” Mike says bluntly. “Maybe the best I’ve ever worked with. You have another book. You just don’t know you do.”

John can’t meet Mike’s gaze. He feels the muscles in his jaw clench as he stares out the window. The rain has stopped, but drops still cling to the glass.

“What do you want me to do?” he says quietly.

“How much can you manage?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“A chapter?” Mike’s voice is hesitant. “A chapter of something. Anything. He’ll take a first draft in any form.” A pause. “Surely you have something.”

John chuckles bitterly. “If ‘nothing’ counts as something, that’s what I’ve got. Occasionally I delete things, and then I’ve got less than nothing.”

He feels, rather than sees, the weight of Mike’s look. There’s no getting around this. Mike, despite his affable demeanor, is about as easy to argue with as a cast iron pillar box.

“Just one chapter,” Mike says. “Anything you want. Pick an idea.”

If I had an idea, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, John thinks, and drains his espresso with a resigned nod.

* * *

New Blank Document.

This shouldn’t be hard. One chapter. One bloody chapter. How many words is that? Five thousand. Less, maybe. Faulkner wrote a one-line chapter.

The git.

Construction noise outside the window. Midday on this endless grey London street lined with parked cars. It was so much easier to write when he could still breathe smoke-tinged air in his sleep, when he flinched at the noise of lorries and heard helicopters circling in their wake, kicking up clouds of dust and blood and memory.

He wrote all of it, even as the dust and smoke faded into London fog. Black lines filled the screen as the wound in his shoulder faded from raised pink shards to flat white seams. Black lines for white ones: words traded for scars. Each memory dissolved in print, caged and subdued, packaged and boxed for easy digestion by the masses.

There are no memories fighting to be caged, now. Only the slow rumble of cars and the grey street.

Perhaps this is all he has to give, this safely preserved trauma in a neat trilogy on a bookshelf. He’s gone to Afghanistan, taken a bullet so that thousands of readers don’t have to. All those injuries, all the violent deaths. It was enough for a lifetime, far too much.

It doesn’t explain why John still keeps opening his laptop as if expecting to find something on that blank screen, something to drive away the empty cars and fog and trips to Tesco. He’d once flooded that same screen with words, words that made his heart pound, words that made his eyes sting with the fresh wound of gunfire. He didn’t need to coax or cajole: the words came. They fought their way out like the pounding of artillery, loud and painful and unyielding.

That chapter is over.

He could write another man’s story, imagine the gunfire again. Try to call forth the noise and smoke. One word in front of the other. He has his marching orders, after all.

_Private Hope shouldered his assault rifle and peered from the bunker._

His leg hurts like hell.

* * *

The woman who answers the door at 221B Baker Street does not look at all like she works for an editor of Booker Prize-winning novels. She’s a bit older than John’s mum, with a smile twice as kind. She wipes flour-dusted hands on a purple polka-dotted apron and looks him up and down with a polite sort of confusion.

“Excuse me,” John says, hoping it’s the right address, although it would be highly unlikely he’s wrong, as he’s checked Mike’s confirmation email at least forty-five times since last night: _Chapter received. Client to meet at 221B Baker Street, 10:30 a.m._ “I’m here to see a Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

The woman’s brow furrows. “He didn’t say he was expecting anyone else this morning.”

John is nearly impaled on a spike of doubt. “I, uh -- Watson. My name’s John Watson. I’m supposed to meet him here -- er, half past ten, I think.”

John’s obvious nerves only cause the woman’s smile to brighten in kindness, if such a thing were possible. “Why don’t you come in,” she says quickly, opening the door and beckoning him into the hallway. “He forgets sometimes. In his own world, really. Half the time I think he’d forget to eat if I didn’t remind him. It’s a good thing most of his clients are so punctual, he’d never make his appointments otherwise. I’m his landlady, not his secretary, dear.”

“Not his secretary?” John echoes, limping heavily up the stairs after the terribly kind woman.

“I wouldn’t have started in with the baking if I’d known he had another appointment,” the woman says over her shoulder, as if this is a reasonable answer. “He’s in with a client now, I’ll make sure he hasn’t forgotten about you.” At the first floor landing, she pauses at a pair of closed doors. Light filters through the opaque glass of an interior window, and through it John can make out terse, low voices. Before he can protest, the woman raps firmly on one of the doors.

“Yoo-hoo! Sherlock? You’ve got another one, love, did you know?”

The terse voices fall silent, and then, a resonant, startling baritone: “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Not your secretary,” she calls back, and pats John companionably on the arm. “There you are, dear. Just wait here. I’ll bring up a cuppa, you look like you might need it.”

“Thanks,” John says, glancing around and trying to look as if this is a perfectly normal way to meet a nearly famous editor. “But you don’t need --”

Mrs Hudson is already disappearing down the stairs. “I’ll just pop in the scones, won’t be a minute!”

John watches her bustle downstairs and shut the door to what he imagines must be her own flat. Holmes’ office is in a private residence, then? Certainly not what he’d imagined for an editor of his supposed calibre. As John sat awake nights typing the dry bones of what he prayed would be a serviceable first chapter, he’d imagined Mr Sherlock Holmes in a penthouse office, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with a breathtaking view of the Thames. Or perhaps an office with leather chairs and bookshelves and a polished antique desk, and an assistant who offers a neat glass of Scotch to each client. With a name like Sherlock Holmes, that seemed an even more likely scenario.

Here at 221B, dust filters through the patches of light thrown on the scuffed wooden floor of the hallway. The panelled doors and trim need painting, and the elderly wallpaper skirts the borderline between quirky and garish. John shifts his weight and tries not to listen to the low voices behind the door. Perhaps the next great work of Western literature is in development not ten feet from John’s hateful cane. John allows himself the tiny glimmer of hope that’s been beating against his chest like a caged butterfly: perhaps Holmes is such a genius that he doesn’t care to impress clients with a posh office. Bless Mike Stamford. Perhaps this Sherlock Holmes might, against all odds, be able to help him.

A sudden flurry of movement behind the door, voices escalating in volume. John can’t make out the first voice, but the second, a rumble nearly deep enough to shake the floorboards, is perfectly clear. “Thank you for your input,” intones the man who replied to Mrs Hudson.

“Well, that’s why it’s based in Germany,” the second man says. He has a higher voice, but compared to Holmes, that’s not saying much. “It’s an allegorical retelling --”

“Ah, an allegory, is it? Brilliant, Anderson.”

Anderson sounds mollified.“Well, thank you --”

Holmes’ voice rises. “Brilliant impression of an idiot. Your attempts at allegory are about as subtle as a flashing billboard. This is a ham-handed rewrite that lacks only vampires to make it worthy of the paperbacks sold at airport kiosks.”

Quick, hard footsteps approach the door. John takes a step back, hoping to blend into the garish wallpaper. The door flies open, and a tall man with a hawk-like nose glares at John before storming noisily down the stairs and slamming the front door of the building behind him.

John’s heart hammers against the barrier of his chest, crushing the feeble butterfly of hope and leaving only a dead smudge of colour in its wake. Silence settles into the stairwell for several eternal minutes.

“Doctor Watson,” the deep voice says.

John swallows and limps forward through the door.

The room is cluttered, cozy, cave-like in its intimacy. Books line the walls, to be sure, but they fight for space with esoteric objects that would look equally at home in a museum or a flea market. John’s gaze lingers nervously on the human skull perched on the mantelpiece before he meets the stare of the man seated in a square leather chair across the room.

The man’s eyes are as pale as his voice is deep, and equally startling. He presses long fingertips together under the refined arch of his lips and lifts an eyebrow.

John clears his throat. “John Watson,” he says. “It’s nice to meet --”

“Boring,” Sherlock Holmes says.

John stares. Holmes tilts his head, crowned in dark curls, and lowers his hands to his lap. He’s easily ten years younger than John had thought possible, thin and angular in an elegant dark suit. “Excuse me?”

“Boring,” Holmes repeats, straightening in his chair. He waves a hand in the direction of the door. “You may leave.”

John draws himself up with the reflexive stance of a veteran and lifts his chin, then nods curtly. “Right,” he says, and turns to find Mrs Hudson framed in the doorway, holding a tray of scones and tea. The smell gnaws at his stomach, something sweet and promised, denied just as expected. He can almost taste it.

“Lovely to meet you,” he says to her, and means it. “Sorry I can’t stay.”

The only thing preventing John from working himself up into a truly righteous fury on the ride home is a vague feeling shaped almost like joy. But that can’t be right. Most likely, it’s just fading adrenaline, anger scrambling his nerves. It’s been so long since John has felt anything similar, it’s impossible to tell.

* * *

Halfway through the bottle of gin that is his evening’s entertainment, John’s phone beeps.

It takes a moment before he realises it’s his phone. At first he thinks it must be the telly downstairs, which his elderly neighbor leaves on at deafening levels from the hours of six to eleven every evening. Because no one actually texts him, or at least no one other than the automated message system from his mobile service provider, reminding him about unpaid bills. It’s a rather one-sided relationship.

John sets down his drink clumsily and blinks at the screen as the phone beeps a second time.

_Submit edits or new material by Tues next. Meet 221B Baker St, 1030 Wed. SH_

It takes John a full minute to decipher this as anything other than random nonsense. When the meaning hits him, he nearly drops the phone. His fingers are far too large to operate such delicate machinery, and it takes him a solid five minutes to formulate a response. The phone’s keypad must be made for very tiny geniuses.

_What makes you think I’d come back to meet_

_You haven’t given me the first clue_

_Are you actually insane, or just pretending to_

John finally settles on the disappointingly less inflammatory: _Do you have any suggestions for the chapter? 1030 Wed works for me. JW_

His phone promptly beeps again before John remembers that he’s never given Sherlock Holmes his personal mobile number. Mike hasn’t, either, as far as John knows: John’s been copied on all of Mike’s relevant correspondence.

_Don’t be boring. SH_

John decides that the fussy tedium of using the overly miniscule keyboard is a good enough reason not to answer.

* * *

In the grey sameness of his unremarkable days, John can summon one intense emotion with absolute reliability. It usually hits him squarely in the gut, where it spreads with oozing certainty into the depths of his digestive tract. All he needs to do is re-read his own writing, and there it is: revulsion.

This morning is no different. He squints at the screen through a raging headache and studies the twenty-odd pages of tripe he’s managed to churn out, as his stomach churns right along with it. If the writing gig doesn’t pan out, he could always pursue a career in bile production.

Private Jefferson Hope, stationed in Afghanistan. Young, naive British soldier who witnesses a good friend’s death by friendly fire. Hope hides the fact that he was a witness, but the explosion that killed his friend has made him deaf in one ear: not easy to conceal. Character arc is simple enough -- Hope will become disillusioned with Queen and Country as he’s drawn into in the intricate cover-up of his friend’s death. Curtain up, scene one, escalation of tension building to the expected action sequence.

John rubs his forehead. The initial desperate thrill of producing words carried him through almost twenty pages, but in the dreary hangover of editing -- both literal and figurative -- he knows they’re pages he’s read a thousand times before. They may even be pages he’s written before. The sameness of it settles around him like the dull squeeze of claustrophobia. He’s supposed to edit this mess, this creaky cardboard cutout of an introduction, and he doesn’t have the faintest clue how to turn cardboard to breathing flesh. At the moment, he’d rather chuck his laptop out the open window. And hopefully knock out one of the construction workers in the process.

His mobile rings: Mike. Not good.

“Hey,” John says, his voice an embarrassing croak.

“John,” Mike says. “Did I wake you?”

“No, er -- nope,” John says, sitting up straighter. “Just, you know... working.”

“Right. Good.” Mike sounds both surprised and pleased. John’s stomach clenches. “Just wanted to see how the meeting went yesterday with Sherlock Holmes. I hadn’t heard anything.”

“Ah. Yeah. It was, you know -- it was brief,” John says, wondering if “brief” is an adequate euphemism for “hellish and humiliating.” “I think he’s quite busy.”

“Mm. I expect he would be.”

“Yes. Yes, he is. I, er, he’s asked me to edit, and... and come back next week,” John finishes cheerfully, and if he doesn’t get a book deal out of this situation, perhaps he’ll get an Academy Award.

“Oh,” Mike says. “Well -- that’s good, then? At least he didn’t send you packing?”

John turns his choked noise into a fairly convincing cough. “True,” he manages.

“Nice office?” Mike prods, failing to conceal his thirst for details.

The dusty, sunlit memory of 221B drifts into focus, the smell of books and Mrs Hudson’s scones, the dark notes of Sherlock Holmes’ voice filling the stairwell.

“Lovely,” John says truthfully, and feels a bit sick.

* * *

John tosses out half of the chapter and rewrites it. He tosses out half of what he’s rewritten, and rewrites again. His progress, if charted on a graph, would result in a perfect asymptote approaching zero content. Private Jefferson Hope’s nascent existence stops and starts, stuttering like the noisy jackhammers outside John’s window. Eventually, John rereads the chapter so many times that the words on the page move beyond English into something like a Lewis Carroll poem fed through Google Translate. John forwards the new chapter to Holmes, then grabs his coat and leaves his flat as quickly as possible without any destination whatsoever.

After two hours of walking, his cane catches on a rough patch of sidewalk near Grosvenor Square and he nearly pitches forward out of exhaustion. He steadies himself against the cool glass of a storefront window, and as he straightens, wincing, he finds himself staring at a stack of new hardcovers. Empirical evidence that it’s possible to arrange words in such a way that someone will buy them and print them and sell them. Apparently someone named John Watson managed to accomplish this years ago. Another man entirely.

Holmes hasn’t responded to his email, but John doesn’t expect him to.

At ten-thirty on Wednesday morning, John raps on the door of 221B Baker Street and hears only silence.

This is also, somehow, not unexpected.

He raps again. The large brass knocker makes a satisfying noise but fails to produce any movement from within the building. When he tries the doorknob, the front door swings open easily and he steps inside the dark hallway. Mrs Hudson’s door is closed, and the hall is quiet.

“Mrs Hudson?” John calls.

No sound. He limps slowly up the stairs, listening for any indication that he might be disturbing a crucially important meeting, but when he reaches the first floor landing, Holmes’ door is open and his sitting room is vacant.

“Mr Holmes?”

John checks his watch and glances around. The flat is much as it was last week, in a state of strangely pleasant disarray. He shifts a massive pile of books from the seat of a comfortable-looking armchair and settles into it, balancing the books in a careful stack on the floor. No texts on his mobile. He pops open the most recent text from Holmes and types a response.

_At Baker Street for 1030 meeting. JW_

His phone remains quiet.

The next twenty minutes pass in a steady buzz of rattling nerves and odd tranquility. Yellow light sifts through long curtains that occasionally billow over a window left fractionally ajar. A jackknife murderously secures a pile of mail to the mantlepiece. The knot of tension between John’s shoulders tightens until it feels as if his tendons are made of barbed wire.

He should have known better than to subject himself to this sort of humiliation. Clearly Holmes never intended to work with him, and this is all some sort of trick to prove the point that John isn’t a worthy client. Mike wouldn’t have done something like this on purpose, but perhaps Holmes himself is unwilling to have his services bartered out via his brother, and prefers to select his own clients? It’s not an unlikely possibility.

Nearly eleven, now. John pulls out his phone again and begins to type.

_It was nice meeting you. Have a good aftern_

A hailstorm of noise in the stairwell, and before John can pocket his phone, a tall form in a long dark coat sweeps into the room with the speed of a missile and all the gravity of a small planet.

“You’re still here,” Sherlock Holmes says curtly, whirling in place to take stock of the room. His coat flares behind him like a cape.

This greeting raises more questions than it answers. “Yes, but I was just --”

“Your chapter,” Holmes says. The deep timbre of his voice manages to surprise John a second time. Holmes pulls off his scarf and tosses it onto the couch, then begins unbuttoning his coat.

John sits up a bit straighter. His heart patters uncomfortably. “Yes. I... reworked it a bit.”

“I know.” Holmes hangs his coat on the back of the door and straightens his jacket.

John waits for a judgement that never comes. He takes an excruciating breath. “Look, Mr Holmes --”

“Sherlock, please.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Sherlock,” he manages, both fascinated and desperately wishing to sink through the floor.

Holmes -- _Sherlock_ \-- seats himself in the leather armchair opposite John and leans back, watching John as if he were molten glass held over an open flame. “You have questions,” he says.

Fucking right John has questions. All of them fight for right of way through John’s synapses, battling noisily until an unlikely candidate blurts its way out. “The man who was here before,” he says bluntly. It’s not actually a question, but Sherlock follows his thought regardless.

“Anderson?” He waves a hand dismissively. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Okay,” John says. He waits, and Sherlock watches him. When it seems apparent that Sherlock intends to watch him indefinitely, John clears his throat and tries again. “My chapter, then?”

“Dull,” Sherlock says.

John’s eyebrows inch higher. “Dull.”

“I think you heard me, yes.”

Something explodes behind John’s right temple. He feels a vein there start to throb. “Is this some sort of joke?”

Sherlock’s brow creases. “Are you finding it funny?”

John huffs a laugh in disbelief. “Not in the least, no.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes narrow. “Your chapter was dull at the outset. Your revisions only served to highlight the underlying boredom from a variety of different angles.”

“Mmm,” John says, smiling tightly. “Is this what a consulting editor does, then? Just dole out insults?”

“I prefer to eliminate pleasantries,” Sherlock says evenly. “Whatever remains is usually the truth.”

They stare at each other. The vein in John’s forehead throbs.

When the silence grows too loud to bear, John clears his throat. “Why am I here, then?”

“Obvious.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “Desperation.”

“Desperation,” John echoes.

Sherlock sits up. “You receive residual profits from the trilogy you published over five years ago, which is your primary source of income. You’re a doctor, but you’ve allowed your medical licence to lapse. You hate your current flat, detest it actually, but remain there because you can’t afford better. It would be simple enough to renew your licence and find locum work, but you haven’t done that -- haven’t sought out any medical work at all in the past five years. So, unemployed, seemingly by choice, despite an unpleasant living situation.

“Mike Stamford’s waited nearly a year to send me a client, but your chapter was written only two weeks ago: the day after he sent me your name, in fact. Why would an agent refer a writer to an editor without a book in hand? Furthermore, why would a writer seek out my services and then start a book? Could be overconfidence, or a gamble, but no, everything from your texting to your body language says that’s not the case -- and then there’s the name of your main character, quite transparent: Private Hope. No, you’re here because on some deeper level you believe that this might be your last chance at ever writing again, because for the past few years you’ve been suffering from a crippling case of writer’s block.” Sherlock looks at John’s leg pointedly. “In your case, quite literally.”

“I was shot,” John says, after a moment.

“Not in your leg,” Sherlock replies.

John swallows. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “How much did I get right?”

“Most of it,” John says. “You missed the nights spent drinking alone.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock counters. “I just chose to omit that detail.”

John absorbs this, then stands, stiffly, and leans on his cane. “Just curious,” he says lightly. “Is this the typical treatment you extend to your new writers? A few weeks’ worth of stalking, so you have sufficient ammunition when they finally arrive in your office? Have special connections with the government, do you? Your brother’s very friendly with the Secret Service?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “No.”

“Then how the hell,” John says, voice wavering, “do you know all that?”

“Observed it.”

“You observed it. By watching me.”

“Yes.”

John hums in acknowledgement. “Do you do this to everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” John shifts his weight, shakes his head slowly. “Amazing. That was extraordinary... quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Do you think so?”

“Of course,” John says. “What do people usually say when you do that?”

“Piss off.”

“Ah.”

They look at each other again, and John breaks the stare with a nod. “Okay,” he says. “You know I need help, but you do nothing except inform me that my chapter is boring.”

“Lying isn’t going to help you.”

“I didn’t ask you to lie. I asked for suggestions.”

“I believe I suggested that you should either revise, or write something else.”

“Mmm. I was hoping for something, I don’t know, a bit more... specific.”

“All right,” Sherlock says. “More specifically, you presented me with a chapter that nearly put me to sleep on first read-through. All the explosions in the world don’t make a predictable plot thrilling, and when a writer sleepwalks through a battle scene, the reader’s going to do the same. Little Red Riding Hood has far more tension and excitement than what you’ve written.”

“Okay,” John says, after a beat. He steps back, his hand in a white-knuckled grip on his cane. “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s three miles from Baker Street and can no longer catch his breath.

* * *

One glass of whiskey burns John’s throat pleasantly and starts to scorch the edges of his memories. Two glasses convince him that Sherlock Holmes is an ass.

Mike had the best intentions, but the last thing John needs is some prima donna editor who can’t be bothered to engage on a level above childish insults. Clearly, Sherlock wanted to get rid of John -- thought himself above a mere army doctor who wrote a few mass-market paperbacks. Probably hasn’t even read _Three Continents_ , John thinks -- it’s not Proust, but he’s moderately proud of it. But it’s likely Sherlock assumes anyone who didn’t go to public school can’t write for crap.

John takes another swig of whiskey. Sherlock is wrong. He’s too arrogant to know it, but he’s really fucking wrong. He doesn’t deserve John’s business, and he doesn’t deserve Mike’s, either, for that matter. What he does deserve --

What he deserves, John thinks, is a chapter. John’s fairly sure this one won’t be boring at all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter was betaed in various incarnations by esterbrook, bendingsignpost, and HiddenLacuna.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Once upon a time, John Watson was done telling stories.

His cottage at the edge of the woods smelled of fresh-cut wood and old stone. Every morning, John took his axe to the edge of the forest and chopped until his arms were sore. He could just see the edge of the forest path from where he stood, and he’d watch as a small figure in a red cloak skipped brightly through the fallen leaves. She never saw him, but he liked it that way. In fact, he ensured it. Every afternoon, he’d return home and light a fire in the old stone fireplace. As daylight fell, he would take out his notebook and write five words: _Nothing ever happens to me_.

That was all John wanted.

Human beings love routine, or at least that’s what John told himself each day as he collected the same number of eggs from his chickens (three) and milked his solitary cow. His garden yielded a modest yet reliable crop of carrots and peas. John spent afternoons tending the house and yard, stacking wood for the winter that never came. If the forest whispered at night, no one ever knocked.

When morning came, John would shoulder his axe once more. The little cloaked figure would flit through the woods in the distance. Sometimes, if John lingered at the woodpile, he’d catch a glimpse of silver fur in the shadows between the trees. But that was fine. By sundown, the wolf would be dead, and it wasn’t John’s problem to begin with. Grandmother always got her cookies in the end.

One day, some idiot changed that.

Late in the afternoon, the fire was lit, the kettle nearly boiling. John was in his chair by the window. He opened his notebook and creased the spine, smoothing a hand over the words from each previous day. Five identical words repeating back in time, his handwriting just the same. He dipped his pen into the inkwell and wrote today’s sentence, five words underneath the previous five, an iron-clad guarantee: _Nothing ever happens to me._

And then his front door crashed open with the force of a felled tree.

A strange man John had never seen before bolted into the cottage and slammed the door behind him. His dark coat billowed as he paced the worn floorboards. He didn’t seem to notice John in the chair.

“What the _hell_ ,” John said, voice creaky with disuse, “are you doing?”

The man didn’t answer. He bent to peer out of the window that faced the faraway forest path.

John watched him for a minute. The man was tall and pale, dark-haired, and alien-looking. His coat collar was turned up, and it wasn’t particularly cold outside. The kettle began to boil in earnest, rattling with the force of it. The man didn’t turn around.

“Right.” John straightened and cleared his throat. “You’re not supposed to be here, you know.”

The man turned and cocked his head to one side, studying John as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes were a startling shape and colour. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, in a voice too deep for its own good. “Does that make you want to kill me?”

“What?”

“No?” The oddly named Sherlock Holmes peered out of the window again. “Good.”

John rescued the kettle from the fire and began to pour his tea. “John Watson,” he said, after Sherlock continued to remain silent. “Your name’s fine. It’s the breaking and entering that isn’t working in your favour.”

“That’s not important.” Sherlock waved a hand. “You don’t matter anyway.”

John put down the kettle and flexed his fingers. “You know, that kind of comment doesn’t really help your cause.”

Sherlock turned around again. His eyes swept over John imperiously. “You’re just a simple woodcutter.”

“No,” John countered. “No, I’m a highly complex woodcutter. And you’re in my bloody cottage. Get out.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I prefer not to.”

“Who cares what you prefer? I’m retired. You can’t just barge in here.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “Retired? There’s a stack of freshly cut wood outside. The logs on the fire have been felled within the past day. Your hands are still rough and reddened from recently holding an axe. In what way, exactly, are you retired?”

“I don’t need to tell you anything about my life.” John fished the teabag from his cup and set it down.

Sherlock Holmes watched him with a look of arrogant impatience. “You’re right. You don’t. I can see everything I need to know.”

John smiled thinly. “Then you can tell I’m quite handy with an axe.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Depends. Are you leaving?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning back to the window. “Oh, _dull_.”

“There’s a wolf out there who hasn’t eaten all day,” John said, after a pause. “I’ve no doubt he’d like to meet you.”

“The wolf hasn’t eaten all day,” Sherlock repeated slowly.

“No, he hasn’t.”

This, at last, seemed to capture Sherlock’s attention. His eyes scanned John up and down. “Interesting.”

“I’ve just randomly gone from dull to interesting, have I? I’m honoured.” John gestured toward the door. “This has all been fun, but why don’t you head back to wherever it is you’re from? Who are you, a friend of Red’s family? Do you live in the village? You’re off the beaten track out here. I’m sure you’ve got something else you’re supposed to be doing.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Sherlock said triumphantly, eyes wide. “Oh. You’re a _writer_. A-- a storyteller.”

The cottage fell silent but for the crack of logs on the fire. John cleared his throat. “I’m a woodcutter. A _simple_ woodcutter. You said so yourself.”

“It all makes sense,” Sherlock said, abandoning his spot at the window to stare at John. “Your haircut and posture say military, but there’s no militia in this story, so you’re not from here originally. Obvious -- I should have seen it. Your left ring finger has an old callus from holding a pen, you’ve got ink spots on your forefinger and thumb from where you’ve licked them to turn a page. And you know I don’t belong in this cottage: you’ve given hints to redirect me to my presumed role in the tale. So, storyteller’s looking likely, but your hands are calloused, lots of manual labor recently -- you’re not actively writing. You’re wasting your time out here for some reason. Why? Maybe something happened to you. You were injured years ago, from the way you hold your shoulder. You walk with a limp, but you don’t need a cane when you stand, so the limp’s at least partly psychosomatic. So, an emotional trauma in your past. Possibly a trauma that affected your writing. You’re hiding in this dull story so you don’t have to write.”

John stared in shock at the intruder.

“How much did I get right?” Sherlock prompted.

John ignored him. “You got all that because I said the wolf hadn’t eaten today.”

Sherlock sighed. “None of the characters in this story would know that the wolf hasn’t eaten yet. Only an outsider familiar with the story would know what time of day the wolf gets the grandmother. You’re not accustomed to speaking with anyone here, or you wouldn’t have made that mistake.”

“Who are you?”

“Clearly, you won’t report me,” Sherlock continued, waving a hand as if John hadn’t spoken. “You’re not supposed to be here either. This story is static -- it isn’t zoned for an active storyteller. You don’t _want_ to be discovered.”

John lifted his chin and looked up at Sherlock. After a moment, he said only, “This story isn’t dull.”

“If that’s what you think, you must not have written very interesting stories.”

“Well, you would know, then?” John’s voice galvanized. “Is this some sort of prank? Are you a colleague sent to drag me back into service? No, thanks very much, not interested. And incidentally, insulting me may not be the best tactic, if that’s your goal. I respond better to shameless flattery.”

“I’m not a writer.”

“Then this doesn’t make any sense.” John picked up his notebook from the table and held it up. “You can’t be here at all. Look what I’ve written today: ‘Nothing ever happens to me.’ By definition, these words are reality. You should not be able to exist in here.”

Sherlock looked down at his long dark coat and opened his hands. “And yet.”

John thrust the notebook at him. “Look at this, will you?”

Sherlock took the notebook and turned it over in his large, pale hands. He smudged a thumb across the open page. “Ink’s not dry,” he said.

John snatched it back. The words he’d recently written were now only half-legible: Smudge _thing_ smudge _happens to me_. “Fucking hell. Well, now it says -- the point is, you shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Whoever you are.”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock said, as if this were a reasonable explanation. “The only one in the world.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not quite clear on what a consulting detective is doing in my cottage. Are you here to figure out how many carrots I picked yesterday? Or where I misplaced my scarf?” John rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Maybe I’m hallucinating. Look, as I said, you have to leave. This isn’t supposed to happen.”

Sherlock glanced out the window again. “And as I said, I prefer not to leave.”

“So you’re going to come in here,” John said slowly, “and ignore me, and then insult me, and make maddening, cryptic comments, and then expect me to invite you to stay for dinner.” He paused. “I could write you out of here, you realise.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock said. “Even if you could still write, which I doubt.”

John’s hand closed around one of the long iron pokers by the fireplace grate. He drew it out of its holder and held it aloft.

“I _am_ a woodcutter,” he said. “And this is my house. My life is fine without writing. It’s better than fine. I don’t need someone to storm in like some superior form of human and tell me I’m doing it wrong. Let’s just pretend this conversation never happened, right?”

Sherlock’s face went curiously blank. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Throw me to the wolves?”

“That’ll do, for a start,” John said, and motioned toward the door with the poker. “Dull story, is it? Let’s find out.”

* * *

Something is very wrong with John’s face. It feels like it’s made entirely of teeth. Also, his head hurts.

He lifts his head to find that his cheek is partially adhered to his keyboard, which explains the teeth. He squints at the open screen of his laptop and is relieved to see a browser window with BBC News instead of a screen full of random characters generated by his nose. An empty glass next to his elbow explains the headache.

His mobile, next to his other elbow, chirps. John fumbles with it and illuminates the screen.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

The previous night wallops John over the head with the grace of a wet mop. He blanches and pulls open his email. It’s a dream, he thinks. Just a really ridiculous dream. You did not stay up most of the night writing a nonsensical, fairytale parody of Britain’s most revered editor, and then email it to him. You did not, because who does something like that?

John’s Sent Mail folder reveals the answer to that question. It’s not an answer John particularly likes.

His inbox is blessedly empty save for two spam messages, one informing him he’s inherited a sum of money in Uganda. He pops open a new message window and emails Mike.

_Moving to Uganda. Will explain later. -- John_

John’s mobile chirps again, sunnily proclaiming the arrival of another text. _If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

This text triggers a violent wave of nausea, which provides a convenient excuse for not responding. When John’s finished in the loo, he gets into the shower. The shower marginally improves his headache, but does not magically erase the texts from his mobile, nor the offending email from his Sent folder.

He’s got to go to Sherlock’s, there’s no choice. John may have put a nail through the coffin of his own career last night, but he owes it to Sherlock to apologise. Even if Sherlock is an affected, infuriating git.

Ten minutes later John pounds down the steps of his flat, hair still damp. He swipes his Oyster card and lets the Tube swallow him, the train rattling the ache in his temples. By the time he disembarks at Baker Street he’s managed to compose a half-decent speech in his head that doesn’t seem to be a blatant bid for pity or forgiveness. He wants neither of those things. No, he thinks, crossing the street and spotting the front stoop of 221B, he just wants to end this folly. This has been a clear sign, and John can accept it: no more writing. Tomorrow he’ll see about renewing his medical license.

He feels somehow lighter as he raps the heavy brass knocker against the door. When no one answers, John lets himself in and practically jogs up the stairs. Smoky yellow light from Sherlock’s open door floods the hallway. John peers around the doorframe, but hears nothing.

“Come in,” rumbles a dark voice.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my betas, esterbrook & Mazarin221b!


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is a long, thin line on the leather sofa, a still-life in black and white. His fingers perch together under his chin, eyes closed as if watching a particularly calming image behind his own eyelids.

“Sorry to bother you,” John says, vaguely horrified at having interrupted a private moment. “I got a text -- I’ll just, I’ll come back later, I --”

“No,” Sherlock interrupts.

John blinks. “What?”

Sherlock still doesn’t open his eyes. John has no idea how to proceed; this goes against his deeply British sense of proper social interaction. Normal people don’t behave like this, not unless drugs are involved. John’s brow furrows. _Are_ drugs involved?

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock’s alien eyes fly open at last and he exhales, clenching and unclenching a fist. His sleeves are rolled up, and now John can see that shiny, flesh-coloured stickers mottle the underside of one pale forearm.

“Are those --”

“Nicotine patches. Helps me think.”

John temporarily forgets any reason for his visit, and simply stares. “Three of them?”

“It’s a three-patch problem.”

“What is?”

Sherlock sits up, ruffling his hair into disarray. He sighs as if John is a child who’s been badgering him for biscuits for the better part of an hour. “You,” he says bluntly.

John blanches, then swallows. “Ah. Er, well. That’s -- that’s why I’m here. I wanted to -- apologise.”

Sherlock blinks at him. “Why?”

John’s stomach drops to his shoes. Sherlock’s going to draw this out? John supposes he deserves a fair amount of torture in return for last night’s performance, but this is worse than expected. “Because, I -- you did _read_ the email I sent last night?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s gaze vaporises John’s practised speech into a stuttering, incoherent trail of apology. “That was -- I got a bit drunk, and I was angry, and so. So, I didn’t mean to send it. I was -- well, it won’t ever happen again. I hope it didn’t -- well. I’m sorry to bother you.” John cuts himself off before he can blunder into complete inanity. He lifts his chin resolutely and nods. “That’s all.”

“Sit down.” Sherlock gestures to a worn armchair.

“If it’s all the same, I’ll just be going.”

Sherlock huffs in frustration, stands, and climbs onto the back of the black leather armchair across the room. He tilts his head again toward the armchair opposite his own. “You’re staying to write.”

“What?”

“I believe I spoke quite clearly.”

Anger crawls up John’s spine. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The thing,” John says, “where you assume I know what you’re talking about, and in truth you haven’t said more than five bloody words to me since I met you.”

“I don’t see what’s so difficult to understand. You sent a new chapter. I told you to meet me here. I’m advising you to continue your work.”

John looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. “See, this. This is all a game, isn’t it? You’re just trying to make me feel as if I’ve lost my mind. Are we on camera? Is someone about to step out and inform me I’ve won a Prius for being tortured by a famous editor? What’s this show called, ‘Congratulations, You’re An Idiot?’”

“You _are_ an idiot,” Sherlock says, “but otherwise, wrong.”

“Fine, okay. I’ll play. Want me to spell it all out so I’m properly humiliated? I was angry. I went home and got drunk. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said, about my story and Little Red Riding Hood. I wrote that chapter as a joke and I don’t remember sending it. I’m bloody sorry about it, and I’ve finished with writing for good. Are we done?”

“No.”

John stares.

“You’re not finished writing for good,” Sherlock says, “and you’re not done writing _that_.”

“Don’t take offence, but when you say things like that, it makes me wonder if you’re having some kind of lapse in sanity.”

Sherlock actually grins, a wry half-twist of his mouth. “I’m quite serious.”

“I wrote a parody. Of a fairytale. With -- wait. _With you and me in it._ And you want me to abandon the actual story I’m working on, about a _real war that I fought in_ , and write John Watson and Sherlock Holmes battle the Big Bad Wolf.”

Sherlock’s grin widens. “Yes.”

“And you don’t think that sounds completely fucking mental.”

“I don’t care how it sounds.”

“Clearly not.”

Sherlock leans forward. “You suffer from writer’s block. You have done for years. Your writing-related anxiety is so acute that it aggravates a psychosomatic limp. Your therapist hasn’t got a clue how to help you. Writing exercises, perhaps? A thousand words a day?”

“Blog,” John mutters.

Sherlock raises a smug eyebrow. “Every single thing you’ve tried writing since you finished that trilogy, everything you’ve forced yourself to write, hasn’t been for you. It’s what you think people expect of you. ‘Bestselling author John Watson writes about Afghanistan.’ But the war’s over, Dr Watson. You wrote your war already. You can’t write what you think people want to read. You have to write the stories you want to tell.”

“And I want to write about myself in a fairytale cottage, chopping wood.”

“Apparently.”

“This is insane,” John says, mostly to himself, because he’s not sure if Sherlock would even register the comment at this point. He adds, a bit louder: “Of course I wanted to write that. I was trying to take the piss.”

“That much was obvious, yes. But there’s more to that fairytale story. There’s more in your head than what made it onto the page. And that wasn’t the case with the war story you sent. It was apparent that the mere act of thinking about the Private Hope nonsense was a chore.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“The rhythm of the descriptions in the war story. Short, choppy, as if you’d stopped and started each sentence numerous times. Action scenes filled with static verbs. It wasn’t coming alive for you. Whereas you sat down and wrote the fairytale in one go.”

“I was _drunk_.”

“You alluded to events in your character’s past, in my character’s past. You’d thought about more than just that one scene. Right now I could ask you a question about why your alter ego decided to sit in that cottage, and you’d have more of an answer than you would about why Private Hope enlisted in the army.”

John’s mouth falls open. “But that’s ridiculous.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. But you know what’s going to happen next in that story. My character’s running from something, and you know what it is. You just don’t want to admit you do.”

“I don’t,” John says, but the words lack so much conviction that they fade almost before he utters them.

Sherlock smirks, but a hint of warmth crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Then tell me, Doctor, why you took the tube, walked to my flat, and jogged all the way up the stairs carrying your laptop bag instead of your cane.”

John looks down at himself and sways in surprise, nearly staggering off-balance. He takes a step toward the proffered empty armchair and finds he’d very much like to slump into it. His laptop bag, which is not in the least like a cane, hits the floor with a thump.

“You’re really serious,” he manages, after a long, helpless silence.

“It’s quite tedious to keep convincing you of my intentions. I assure you, I am never anything other than straightforward with my writers.”

Something shakes itself loose in the vicinity of John’s chest, the frayed end of a tightly wound knot. _My writers_. Sherlock has writers. John is one of them. He’s included John in that sentence without hesitation. Sherlock, barmy though he might be, thinks John is a writer.

“Okay.” John’s voice cracks unexpectedly. “Okay. Assuming, as you say, that this isn’t a massive joke. You want me to keep writing -- here? Right now?”

“You’ve been writing in a distracting location. It was clear your Private Hope chapter was written primarily during the day. Your fluidity improved significantly with the second chapter, written late at night. You’re a private person, unlikely to seek out a coffee shop, so both chapters were written at home. Must be some sort of disturbance at your flat during the day. Construction, most likely.”

John can’t help a faint grin. “I’d say the whisky helped the second chapter far more than the lack of noise.”

“I can’t condone that, but the drinks cupboard is in the bookcase to your left.”

John huffs a laugh as he leans over to fish his battered laptop out of his briefcase. He settles back into the oddly comfortable armchair.

“Use this,” Sherlock says, and tosses a Union Jack cushion at him. It proves to be just the right size for propping an open computer on John’s lap.

“Ta.”

Sherlock abruptly launches himself out of his seat, fetching his coat from its hook on the back of the door. “Tea’s on the counter next to the hob. Mrs Hudson will be along in about an hour if you’re hungry. Back soon.”

“You -- that’s it? You’re leaving?”

Sherlock, pulling on his coat, sighs impatiently. “Problem?”

“No,” John says, realising that he is, in fact, perfectly comfortable to stay and write in the flat of a man he’s just met, a man who may be a certifiable lunatic. He’s not sure what that says about his own state of mind. “I just -- a bit of guidance might be helpful. That wasn’t -- well, I hadn’t planned to write any more of that particular story.”

A crease appears between Sherlock’s brows as he knots a blue scarf around his neck. “I find that extremely hard to believe.”

John scoffs. “You do, do you? Think I’d plotted out the _Lord of the Rings_ of insulting emails, and just quit out of sheer politeness?”

Sherlock grins, lopsided and genuine. “No, although if you have done that, by all means, continue.”

Their eyes meet. John feels a shock of exhilaration, as if he’s about to go sneak a smoke outside the school grounds. He mirrors Sherlock’s grin unconsciously. “Left my notes at home, unfortunately. I’d invented my own language made purely of insults. I was just starting to translate it into a system of runes.”

“All those who wander are idiots?”

“Mmm, yes. You can guess where I told them to put the Ring.”

Sherlock’s deep chuckle settles into the place in John’s chest where a knot of anxiety had so recently kept residence. John surrenders, dropping his head down as his shoulders shake with laughter. Sherlock pulls on his gloves. “How did I get there?” he says, voice still warm and amused.

“Where?”

“The Shire, John. Where do you think? The cottage in the woods. The place you’ve written.”

John sighs and looks up, rubbing the back of his neck. He wonders whether sheepishness can be fatal, because if so, his lifespan’s about to be greatly reduced. “You... were pursued.”

Sherlock’s self-satisfaction is nearly tangible, soaking his words like good Scotch. “Interesting. By whom?”

“By --”

“No.” Sherlock holds up a gloved hand and gestures toward John’s laptop. “Don’t say it. Write it.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to esterbrook & Maz!


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Darkness gathered itself around the cabin in the woods, pressing against the log walls as if snuffing out a candle. Nothing moved in the forest. Noises faded to black, quiet but for the occasional breeze rustling against the windows like paper. A wolf howled outside the cottage, a hollow, high sound. John had never heard it howl before.

The noise raised every hair on the back of John’s neck. Years weren’t measured in these woods, but he’d been here long enough to know the sameness of each day, a rhythm he could feel in his bones. The howl was a jarring note of cacophony, a broken string on the cello of evening. John shivered and stood from his chair to look out the window. He could see nothing out of the ordinary.

Not an hour ago John had shut a man out of his house, a man who, unlike the view outside, was very much out of the ordinary. The shock and unease of their meeting had only just begun to filter out of John’s system, aided by a glass of whisky and a seat by the fire. Now both returned in full force, warmth and whisky be damned. The wolf never roamed at night. Something was amiss.

As much as John wanted to shut out the entire evening -- and he had, rather curtly, closed the door on Sherlock Holmes -- he’d somehow known that his dismissal of Sherlock couldn’t repair the timeline, already snagged and likely to unravel. He’d just hoped it wouldn’t unravel quite so close to his house.

A second howl echoed in the quiet that stretched beyond the cabin, and an image bloomed in John’s mind: a dark coat flaring before the wolf like the cape of a matador. A coat like little Red’s cape, a photo negative in grey wool.

John swore to himself and grabbed the axe from its hooks above the door. It didn’t come easily, as if the tool thought itself a part of the wall, no longer an axe at all. But once freed, it settled into John’s hand as if recognizing a friend. The door lock fought a similar battle, but John rattled it into submission and the door popped open like a cork. He struck out into the night, breaking into a jog down the quiet path that led in the direction of the howls.

The timeline was most likely corrupted, but perhaps John could gently redirect it. Occasionally, minor slip-ups could be ignored: the mispronunciation of a name, the colour of Red’s hair. Sometimes Grandmother was Grandma, but she responded nonetheless. When the sun rose, the story would begin anew, provided all the players were in place. With any luck, Sherlock could sleep somewhere out-of-the way tonight, unnoticed. Maybe he’d even vanish with the morning. One could hope.

Stupid, John thought. Stupid to shut him out. He should have kept him in the cottage, away from the rest of the players -- that’s what Sherlock had wanted. Guilt clenched John’s shoulders as he quickened his pace on the path. He’d reacted out of panic, out of blind need. Shut out the problem and the problem will go away. Ages spent living like a hermit in some out-of-the-way fairytale and he still hadn’t learned that avoidance never fixed anything. Now it was likely John’s fault if the storyline sustained further damage.

The wolf could eat Sherlock. The wolf could eat him and wander back to Grandmother’s house, and all of this would be done. John could trust in the wolf, turn around, go home.

Or Sherlock could evade the wolf, lure the wolf into some uncharted part of the forest, leading it on until morning, and who knew what chaos would ensue. Sherlock could kill the wolf in the wrong setting, at the wrong time --

The wolf isn’t dead, John suddenly thought, and the world seemed to tilt into wrongness with the weight of his realisation. _You bloody idiot, it’s past sundown and the wolf isn’t dead._

The timeline was already broken.

John reached the crest of the nearest hill, heart pounding and nerves screeching profanities. He didn’t know what would happen if the wolf survived late into evening -- it had never happened before. All bets were off. His leg ached at the thought. 

At the path’s summit he could see a bit further into the woods, and there, in the encroaching darkness, he spied a flicker of motion, a rustling under the trees. And then another flicker, some distance away.

Burdened with the axe, John broke into an awkward, fumbling run. He weighed the advantage of silence and decided against it. Best to distract the wolf at all costs. _“Sherlock!”_

No response. Visibility here was poor and getting worse, the trees blocking most of the view. He ran full-out down the slope of the little hill leading deeper into the forest, towards the cottages and everything of any importance in this world. Damn it.

Sherlock and the wolf, if that’s who was out there, were headed for Grandmother’s house. John adjusted his course through the trees, guessing that the wolf was steering Sherlock toward the story’s natural endgame. Or Sherlock was steering the wolf; it was impossible to tell. Thankfully the forest was small, and John arrived at the edge of the familiar clearing before his lungs burst from exertion. He doubled over, axe against his knees, before straightening to look at the house. Yellow light glowed from the diamond-pane windows of the cottage, blue smoke puffing cozily up from the chimney against an inky sky. No indication that anything was amiss, but then, he could have arrived moments too late. John sprinted down the leaf-strewn path, stumbled through the tidy garden of bluebells and tulips, and flung open the door.

He grasped the doorframe to steady himself at the entirely unexpected sight inside the cottage. Sherlock sat at a wooden table near the fire, still wearing his dark coat. Red’s grandmother was busying herself with the kettle. Sherlock’s face was flushed, his hair windblown, but he was otherwise unharmed. The wolf was nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the sight of John by the door, though the light in them was uneasy and dangerous. “John,” he said easily. “Grandmother, I imagine you’ve met John Watson?”

Grandmother turned and squinted through her half-moon spectacles, nightcap perched on her curly grey hair. “I don’t believe so,” she said in a small, crackling voice. “But then again, my memory isn’t what it used to be. Won’t you come in, Mister...”

“Doctor,” Sherlock supplied automatically, still watching John.

“Oh, a doctor! How lovely. Have they sent you from the village for a visit? I’ve been a bit poorly.”

“Y-yes,” John said easily, because that would work. Of course that would work, and then he could take Sherlock away after a cup of tea and they’d find the wolf and set things right. He was suddenly painfully aware of the large axe in his hands, and looked back at Grandmother to see that she was staring at it openly. He swallowed. “I, er. I wanted to make sure you were -- warm. Enough wood for the fire. You do have enough firewood?” he stammered.

Sherlock nodded faintly in approval.

“Aren’t you a dear? Why, yes, I’m fine. My son delivered some just yesterday. Why don’t you have a seat, Doctor? I was just making a cup of tea for Sherlock here. He’s come such a long way.”

Sherlock didn’t take his eyes from John. He inclined his head again, barely perceptible, but John returned the nod and pulled out the wooden chair next to his, then sat, axe propped between his knees. Grandmother shuffled from the kettle to the cupboard, her tiny, frail form bent nearly double in her blue-and-white calico dressing gown.

“You don’t need to do that, really, why don’t you sit --” John began, but Grandmother turned and tutted at him, setting a steaming cup of tea at his place. “Nonsense,” she warbled. “Here you go, dear. And here’s a cup for Sherlock.” She said his name as if savouring a particularly delicious sweet. Although there was another seat next to John’s, she set a third cup of tea on a small table next to a cushy, upholstered armchair and settled herself into it, pulling a flowered quilt over her legs. “I do get cold, excuse me.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock demurred, picking up his cup. He didn’t take a sip.

Grandmother fumbled for her own cup next to her and grasped it with one shaking, gnarled hand. It rattled against the saucer and threatened to spill. “Now, see. It’s my palsy acting up again.” She looked up at Sherlock, watery eyes magnified behind her spectacles. “It’s going to start very soon, Sherlock.”

This struck John as a very odd thing to say. But then again, Grandmother was known to be endearingly senile. Although this walked the line between endearing and unsettling.

Sherlock put his cup back in its saucer. His left knee brushed against John’s under the small table, but his attention didn’t waver from Grandmother as she tried to control her trembling cup.

“Grandmother,” he said, low and unperturbed. “Are those new spectacles?”

“Why, yes,” she said distractedly. “The better to see you with, my dear.”

In that fractional second, a rush of blazing understanding walloped John. He’d never known how an otherwise intelligent little girl could mistake her grandmother for a wolf.

“You know,” he heard himself say, as if the words themselves had decided to use his voice, “your nose, Grandmother. It’s looking rather big, isn’t it?”

“That isn’t terribly polite, John,” Sherlock chided. He sounded amused, but John could feel Sherlock tensing next to him.

Grandmother’s wavering smile grew wider. Had her hair always been that shaggy under her cap? Why couldn’t John seem to focus on her hands? His vision started to swim if he looked at her too closely. She giggled, a creaky little trill of mirth. “Oh, don’t you worry, I get that all the time. You know what they say, boys. The better to smell you with?”

John’s hands closed around the handle of his axe. The wolf needed to die in the cottage, and they’d be back on track. Maybe the hunter was on the way. Maybe he could hear his cue, wherever he was. Unless the timeline was twisted beyond repair.

Grandmother’s grin stretched. Her yellowed teeth seemed terribly pointy for a frail old lady. Her eyes, made round by spectacles, gleamed darkly in the firelight.

“Your teeth,” Sherlock said, as if in a trance. “My, what lovely, shiny... big teeth you have, Grandmother.”

The thing that was Grandmother snarled. Her nightcap shifted on her head, revealing a thick, silvery tuft of fur above her ear. Her grin continued to stretch, pointed, inhuman, and then she clutched the teacup in her hand hard enough to shatter it. Pieces of china scattered over the smooth wooden floorboards.

“The better,” she said, her voice shifting, modulating into a growl, “to eat you with. My dears.”

Without looking at each other, Sherlock and John both moved instinctively. Sherlock stood up and swung his chair, John ducking and lunging to the side with axe in hand. The back of Sherlock’s chair connected with the arched spine of the enormous wolf in front of them, breaking into shards like a bottle of champagne against the prow of a ship.

The wolf straightened, chuckling deeply, the noise like the grate of rusted metal against stone. Sherlock raised the chair leg he still clutched in his hand, more formality than threat.

“Charming,” the wolf said, dropping to all fours to stalk towards Sherlock. “Truly, you’re loads more fun than the little girl.”

“Where is that little girl? Surely you don’t want to bother with us,” John said lightly, gripping the axe so tightly his hands felt frozen. No heavy boots pounded the path outside, no rough fist hammered on the door. The hunter wasn’t coming.

“On the contrary,” the wolf purred, advancing on Sherlock.

The axe felt like lead in John’s hands. Logic told him to let the wolf win. Sherlock was an interloper, an anomaly. Sherlock had dangerously derailed the timeline. He’d now become involved with a major character, jeopardized an unthinkably old tale. If the wolf killed Sherlock, there might be a chance of recovering the timeline before morning. John’s life could return to its smooth, unshaken sameness.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. His chest rose and fell, heartbeat nearly visible at the open collar of his shirt.

John swung the axe. It met the wolf’s fur just behind his neck and kept going, a clean swing born of months chopping wood. The wolf’s head hit the floor with a hollow thud. Its body followed, collapsing in a graceless heap of silver fur.

Mingled, ragged breath filled the cottage. A log popped on the fire. John flinched. “Christ.”

“No blood,” Sherlock murmured, suddenly crouched over the decapitated animal. The wolf’s tongue lolled on the floorboards amongst the shards of broken china cup.

“No.” John took a dazed step back. “Not in this story. Never any blood when this wolf is cut open.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock’s eyes scanned the wolf’s corpse, the floorboards, the clean-swept corners of the room. “The grandmother. She lives here, ordinarily?”

“Yes.” John’s brain refused to work.“Yes, we should... we should find her. We need to get all the major players in place before morning.”

Sherlock straightened. His eyes flickered, a half-second that felt like an open window. Something vulnerable wavered there so briefly John couldn’t be sure if he’d imagined it.

Sherlock cleared his throat and gestured at John’s axe, not entirely meeting John’s gaze. “That -- that thing you did. You -- you didn’t need to do that.”

“No,” John admitted. “No, you’re right. I didn’t.”

Their eyes met. A faint smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Thank you.”

An unaccountable warmth stung John’s cheeks. He shrugged.“Yeah, well, the story’s only a couple of centuries old. A little damage every hundred years might be good for it.”

Sherlock chuckled, gave a nod, and instantly became the picture of businesslike purpose once more. He turned on his heel, hurriedly examining the kitchen counter. Axe in hand, John watched him upend teacups and rifle through cabinets.

“Who _are_ you?” John asked again, because it seemed appropriate.

“I thought we’d been over this.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if nothing you’ve said has made any bloody sense whatsoever. You’re not a storyteller, but you seem to know the unwritten rules. That’s not possible.”

Sherlock picked up an apple from a bowl on the kitchen counter and held it up. “Four days old,” he said. “All the food here is exactly four days old.”

John goggled at him. “Will you answer --”

Sherlock raised an irritated eyebrow, his attention riveted by the seemingly trivial bowl of fruit in front of him. He spun the bowl around, picking apples out of it one by one. “No, I’m not a storyteller. Yes, I know the unwritten rules. No, that’s not impossible, because I seem to exist. Four days old, and the pantry here is mostly empty. Am I correct, then, in assuming that Grandmother needed food? This is why Red was sent to make a delivery?”

“Yes. But --”

“This apple,” Sherlock interrupted, holding up a particularly shiny Rome. “This apple has a bite out of it.”

John very nearly bit his tongue to keep from roaring with frustration. “And?”

Sherlock tossed the apple to John. John caught it neatly in his axe-free hand and turned it over in his palm. “Yes, very good, someone took a bite of an apple, that’s brilliant. Can we maybe focus on something a bit more pressing? Missing characters, timeline corruption. Or, I don’t know, maybe the _beheaded wolf on the floor?_ ”

“That apple,” Sherlock said sharply, “is fresh.”

The apple in John’s hand was indeed redder than the ones in the bowl on the kitchen counter, its skin more polished. It did have a large bite out of it, but was otherwise unblemished. John turned it over again. “That’s odd.”

Sherlock ran his fingers over the dusty windowsill facing the garden and rubbed them together. “It’s more than odd.”

“I don’t understand,” John said, noting that he’d likely never made such a massive understatement. “What are you looking for?”

“The exit. It’s somewhere in here, is it not?”

“Ordinarily.” John’s stomach felt strangely empty. “You leaving, then?”

Sherlock glanced up at him. “I think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”

“Mmm,” John said, and wondered why his heart had chosen to beat so loudly. He stared at the wolf’s head on the floor, its eyes wide and glassy. It was still wearing spectacles and the ridiculous lacy nightcap. “Grandmother’s still missing,” he added. It sounded more like a plea than he had intended.

Sherlock stepped away from the window, eyes narrowed as he scanned the room again. “Grandmother was here in this cottage for a good part of the day. The fire’s been burning since morning -- with the amount of ash beneath the grate, someone had to have started it early. Given the state of the kitchen and the recently used pans in the sink, someone was home until a few hours ago.” He blew out a breath in frustration and looked down at the wolf.

“Where is she?” John muttered. “Did he _eat --_ ”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s just as something stirred at their feet. Sherlock took a hurried step back as the wolf’s headless body twitched, one sharp claw dragging a deep scratch into the wood floor.

“Oh God,” John breathed. “She’s still alive in there.”

They both stared at the corpse. It lurched several inches to one side, which managed to be both comical and horrifying.

“This makes absolutely no medical sense whatsoever,” Sherlock said.

“You are aware this is a fairy tale.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. They watched the headless wolf shudder again and drag itself an inch closer to its severed head. John realised with a dull panic that he had no idea whether to spring to the aid of the old lady, or flee. Both seemed equally valid options.

“Do you think I cut her head off when I did that?” John whispered.

“The hunter usually kills the wolf. Do you know if he’s ever had any issues with decapitating the grandmother?”

“That’s not usually something that comes up in casual conversation,” John said archly, but amended this at Sherlock’s impatient glare. “No, I don’t know. I’ve never been here for this bit, but I know he cuts the wolf open, and she just, you know, comes out.”

“Unharmed? Fully dressed?”

“I imagine so, I’ve never seen it --” John’s voice stalled, then rocketed up an octave. “What do you mean, fully dressed?”

The wolf’s left hind paw thumped once on the floor. “We’ve got to get her out,” Sherlock urged, stepping forward to kneel by the wolf’s body.

John’s eyes widened. Sherlock was right; if the grandmother was freed, the story could end in the correct position, despite the badly tangled plot. He nodded, dropping to one knee next to Sherlock and setting his axe on the floor. They both reached out to roll the body onto its back, exposing the wolf’s soft, snow-coloured underbelly. John cleared his throat. “This isn’t ordinarily my division.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, to be replaced by an intent look as he ran long fingers down the wolf’s breastbone. The fur jumped under his touch. “I know,” he said gravely. “But we’re off track enough as it is. Seems best to free her.”

John blew out a breath and swallowed. “Right,” he said, clenching and unclenching one hand. “Right.”

The fire popped again. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“What?”

“In your own time. But quite quickly.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I’ve never cut a live woman out of a _wolf_ before.”

“Well, you’d best start now.”

Bristling, John thrust the axe toward Sherlock. “Tell you what. You’re the guest, _you_ do the honours.”

Sherlock scowled and took it. “Fine.” He shifted to one knee, gripped the handle with both hands and gave a wobbly test swing. Then he lunged forward awkwardly, blade aimed squarely at the centre of the wolf’s chest.

“Jesus!” John grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s rough wool coat and hauled him back before the axe could connect. “A little finesse, maybe? Someone’s grandmother is in there.”

Sherlock shoved the axe back in John’s direction. “Have at it, then.”

John pulled the axe from Sherlock’s grasp, hands closing instinctively around the familiar handle. “Fine. Christ.” He took a breath and cleared his throat, aligning the blade and wishing desperately he’d peeked in on this part of the story at some point. He had no idea how the hunter cut open the wolf, and he wasn’t particularly eager to eviscerate someone in error. That would be quite the ending: _And the grandmother lived happily ever after, even though she had been partly disemboweled._

Exhaling, he gritted his teeth and touched the axe to the wolf. To his vast relief, it didn’t take much pressure -- the wolf’s skin parted as soon as the axe made contact, splitting neatly down the middle as if a zipper had been sewn into it. The wolf’s fur fell away like some sort of thick, eccentric coat, and curled in the middle, bloodless and small, was Grandmother.

* * *

John slams his laptop shut as if it’s about to burn his hands. He shoves it across the table amidst a sea of half-empty takeaway containers and rakes his fingers into his hair.

Across the room, Sherlock looks up from his own laptop. “Problem?”

“Too fucking right there’s a problem.” John pushes his chair back from the table. “I came over here to apologise this morning. Now it’s nine fucking p.m. and I’m still here, except I’m writing a scene about cutting someone’s fucking grandmother out of a wolf. I think I’ve lost my fucking mind. Jesus Christ.”

He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets hard enough to see stars. The sum total of the day seeps underneath the lights popping behind his eyes: He’s spent the day writing in the sitting room of a man he barely knows, and more than that, an editor whose time per hour may be more valuable than the contents of John’s entire flat. He’s been wasting this man’s time indulging in writing the most ridiculous drivel of all time, and it looks as if someone’s ordered takeaway -- which John has _eaten --_

“It’s fine,” comes Sherlock’s low, easy response.

“It’s not fine,” John stutters, anger giving way to sheepishness. He struggles out of his chair. “I -- I’ll be going, I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. Honestly, I’m really sorry about all this. I’ll tell Mike Stamford your brother’s favour has been well taken care of, and we’ll just --”

“Oh, God, you’re being tedious again.” Sherlock shuts his own laptop with an irritated snap. “If I didn’t want you here I’d tell you to leave. Although if you don’t stop this apologetic simpering I’ll be tempted to do it. I was out half the day; you didn’t even notice.”

“You were out half the day?”

“My point exactly.”

“Okay,” John says in faint surprise. “Okay, I -- but still.” He casts about for his coat and his laptop case, but neither is in obvious view. If they’re here, they’ve disappeared under piles of books and takeaway cartons that have migrated about the flat like roosting pigeons. “It’s late. I need to get home.”

“Take a break.”

John has quickly learned that much of what Sherlock says is issued in the form of a command. He has no idea how to refuse him. “I’ve stayed all day.”

“As I said, it’s fine.” Sherlock leans back and steeples his fingers underneath his chin. “This is the most you’ve written in a single day in quite some time.”

John tilts his head to one side and pretends this revelation hasn’t blindsided him. “I -- well.”

“Your writing environment hasn’t been working for you, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Not only is it loud, it’s unpleasant, lonely, and a constant reminder that you can’t afford better because you haven’t been writing. I’ve no idea how you could be expected to produce anything in a place that specifically reminds you of your failures.”

John lifts his chin against the unexpected sting in Sherlock’s words. “Oh, brilliant. Thanks for that.”

“I don’t lie to my clients. I don’t pander to them, either.”

John gives a half-laugh of disbelief. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s definitely not pandering.”

“I don’t just read manuscripts,” Sherlock says. “I read people. It’s one thing to edit stray commas. It’s another to know what the author needs in order to keep writing. Or, in your case, start writing.”

John is distracted enough by this statement that he nearly forgets he’s trying to leave. “That’s -- wow. I didn’t expect --”

“It’s my job.” Sherlock lifts an eyebrow in the direction of the armchair John adopted for the earlier part of the day. “And I can tell you need a break. You’ve reached a point where you should step away and talk through what happens next.”

“Right,” John says. “And that’s the point where you escort me to the nearest mental institution, because I’m in the middle of writing about the two of us cutting up someone’s grandmother.”

Sherlock grins. “Go on.”

John gives a little laugh in the direction of the ceiling. “Christ. I see it now. You’re as cracked as I am.”

“If you think I care what your story’s about, you’re gravely mistaken. It’s your story, John. What I care about is finding a way to get it out of you. That, in itself, is the puzzle. That is the _work.”_

John’s feet propel him into the suggested armchair without his consent. Sherlock watches him with a faint trace of amusement. “Okay,” John says, sitting heavily. “Okay. Let me see if I understand this. I’m like one of those bloody puzzle boxes, and you’re just going to shake me until a story comes out.”

“Not just any story. The story you need to tell right now.”

“What if I need to tell a different story tomorrow?”

“It’s possible. But once a story has formed in someone’s mind, I find that more often than not, it needs to escape in full. And it’s not always easy to extract it.”

“And that’s where you come in.”

“Precisely.”

“So you -- you do this with all of your clients?”

“No,” Sherlock says. “I do what each client needs me to do for each particular story. It varies wildly. One writer might need blunt criticism. One may need to write in a hotel out of town for a month without my interference. Sometimes, all that’s needed is research or discussion. It’s helpful if I’m an expert on any given subject I might encounter.”

“An expert... on any given subject.”

“I do have specialties, but yes.”

John leans back in his armchair. “So the story itself is irrelevant.”

“Not entirely irrelevant. But secondary to the method of producing it.”

John hums, absorbing this. A wary silence settles into the room.

“We’re in Little Red Riding Hood,” John says at last. When he looks up, Sherlock merely looks back, eyes alight, and nods. John clears his throat. “Only -- only you’re not supposed to be there. Someone’s corrupted the storyline in order to kill you. We’ve got to get the fairy tale on track again. You’re looking for a way out of the story.”

Sherlock leans forward. “This is a world in which people can travel between stories.”

“Only certain people. Storytellers. And you. You’re not --”

Sherlock holds up a hand. “What needs to happen in order for us to find a way out of Red Riding Hood?”

“You know full well how this story was conceived. You think I’ve got a bloody _outline?_ ”

Sherlock stands up and climbs unceremoniously over the coffee table, managing to balance on it without tipping over any books. He folds himself eagerly into the chair across from John. “If you can’t tell me what happens next, at least tell me what can’t happen.”

“Spaceships don’t appear and obliterate the house,” John says, after a moment. “Rocks don’t fall from the sky.”

“A promising start,” Sherlock replies. “I was hoping you’d go deeper.”

John chuckles. “I don’t see how this is going to help.”

“That’s why you don’t have my job.” Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “Once you eliminate all the things that shouldn’t happen, the only thing left, no matter how strange, is the thing that should happen next.”

“That,” John says, “is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Where did you get that, some sort of self-help seminar? What are we going to do next, build towers out of office furniture? Fall backwards into each others’ arms until we achieve mutual trust?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Stop hiding behind sarcasm and answer the question.”

John exhales. “They don’t leave the cottage. They don’t encounter anyone other than the grandmother, who they set free from the wolf. She’s not herself, though. There’s something wrong with her -- she was corrupted, too. They’ll need to contain her in the cottage, probably in a closet, something like that, so she doesn’t get out and break the storyline further. After they do that, they’ll want to search for the exit so Sherlock can leave the story.”

“And you don’t know when that will be.”

“Obviously not.”

Sherlock regards him impassively. John slumps forward and rubs his face. “I’m going home. I can’t do this. Not only that, I don’t even want to _write_ this story.”

“If I may split hairs, you want this story to be written,” Sherlock says. “You just don’t want to do the work of actually writing it.”

John exhales wearily, then groans into his hands. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Being fucking right all the time.” He lets his hands fall to the arms of his chair in defeat, then starts to push himself up.

“Toilet’s down the hall,” Sherlock says, grinning as he rifles through a stack of papers.

“I’ve been there already,” John starts to protest, but just as he gets to standing, his bladder loudly disagrees with him. Christ, if Sherlock’s sharp enough to guess when John needs to take a piss, God knows what he’ll be like with red pen in hand on a final draft.

“As I said, down the hall,” Sherlock repeats, a smile still lingering in his voice.

“I’m not staying, though.”

“Mmm.... wrong.”

John flips him two fingers and shuffles toward the loo as Sherlock chuckles.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual round of thanks to my helpful betas, esterbrook & Maz.
> 
> ETA: To answer your questions (and comments): No, I've actually never read any Jasper Fforde. But I have a feeling I'll be picking up some of his books when I'm finished writing this!


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

John washes his face in Sherlock’s bathroom sink and looks in the mirror, working the kinks out of his neck. He can see no major difference in his reflection, but the man looking back is a man who wrote all day, and that’s not the same man who stared back at him only a few days ago. Of course, what he’s writing is halfway between nonsense and insanity, but that’s largely irrelevant. Writing anything is good. Maybe a few more chapters of this and he’ll be able to switch back to writing something genuinely worthwhile.

For the moment, though, he could use a shower and about twelve hours’ sleep. There’s a pile of post at his flat awaiting his attention. He doesn’t much want to give it his attention, but he’s starting to think that staying all day and night in his new editor’s flat might be overstepping some sort of boundary by a few miles.

“Sorry, I really do have to get home,” he says to Sherlock, who’s sitting at the desk working on a laptop when John emerges from the toilet. John rifles through a stack of books behind one armchair, and then peers underneath the side table, but no laptop bag. “Some of my stuff is still here, though, so I’ll come back for it later.”

Sherlock grunts noncommittally. After another minute of peering under couches and tables, John finds his coat crumpled in the crease between the seat and back of his armchair. He shakes it out and pulls it on just as Sherlock’s laptop catches his eye.

Sherlock’s laptop isn’t a banged-up red Samsung. John could have sworn Sherlock had a Mac. But this laptop --

“So when a character is corrupted in a fairy tale, it means they don’t follow their dictated storyline,” Sherlock says, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. “The clues in the cottage imply that the grandmother was the character originally corrupted in this story, and when the wolf ate her, he became corrupted as well.”

“Bloody -- what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

“The apple,” Sherlock continues, as if John isn’t standing at his elbow a breath away from strangling him. “The apple is the key.”

“You -- that’s --” John sputters, but rage and disbelief render him incoherent. He stares, round-eyed, at Sherlock. “Password protected,” John manages. “My laptop. I _closed_ it. It would have _locked_. It’s _password protected_.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock says, attention not wavering from the screen. “Took me less than a minute to guess it. I _am_ your editor.”

John reaches over Sherlock’s shoulder and slams the laptop shut. Sherlock visibly flinches, but John's temper has already left the starting gate. “Oh, is that in an editor’s job description now? Managing my health and cracking my passwords?” John sweeps the laptop under his arm. “Sorry, I must be really out of date. My last editor just bought me a cup of coffee once a month. I should have asked him to balance my bank account and phone my mum.”

“John, I --”

To John’s great surprise Sherlock looks down at the desk.

John’s flaring temper wavers and he takes a step back. “Sorry. Sorry, I --”

Sherlock looks back up at him, clear-eyed. “I needed to read it, John. You wouldn’t have let me.”

John blinks. Blinking doesn’t really help. He swallows, utterly baffled as to which of them should be apologising for this exchange.

“We need to talk about the grandmother,” Sherlock says, businesslike, as if John’s temporary spike of rage has dropped immediately from his radar. “She’ll regain consciousness, I imagine. In what way will her corruption manifest itself?”

It feels as if someone has surrendered, but John is no longer sure who it might be. He finds himself sinking slowly back down into his adopted armchair and sets his laptop on the side table. “You _do_ know it’s not right to hack into my computer.”

Sherlock stands, straightens his trousers, and gestures for John to speak. “The grandmother.”

John’s eyebrows crawl up to his scalp. He opens his mouth, then hesitates. “I thought you said the plot wasn’t relevant. What happened to ‘the storyline is secondary to the method?’”

Sherlock’s mouth tilts in a wry smile. “I believe I also said ‘whatever it takes.’”

* * *

The iron key turned in the lock with a satisfying click as the tumbler slid into place. John, his back against the heavy closet door, felt a flurry of surprisingly strong kicks against the wood.

Sherlock slipped the key from the lock and stepped away. “I think it’ll hold.”

John cautiously eased his weight from the door, leaning a shoulder on it until he was sure the closet was secure. Sherlock had managed to deduce the hidden location of the key by a bit of trickery involving a lit match and the threat of burning furniture. John’s pulse was still thumping ten minutes after the fact.

“That was seriously creepy,” he said quietly, finally stepping back from the locked door. It rattled once, then settled into resigned silence. “I promise, she’s not usually like that.”

“I believe you.” Sherlock brushed off his coat. “Grandmother was likely the root of the corruption. You’re a doctor, yes? To use a medical analogy, she was patient zero.”

John shook his head, not even bothering to wonder that Sherlock had guessed his former profession. “I wouldn’t have believed it, but she was terrifying. I’ve never seen an eighty-year-old woman in a nightgown attempt to murder someone with knitting needles.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. “You did notice she had a rather singular focus.”

John nodded. “Yeah. You. I don’t see how that’s possible. You’re not native to this story.”

“Would it surprise you to know that this isn’t the first time this has happened?”

John swallowed. “What, since you’ve been here?”

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes leaving John’s to scan the bedroom distractedly. “No. Since I left my own story.”

John felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You left --”

Sherlock interrupted, his voice low and urgent. “You’re not a native, either. You must know the exit. I can’t waste more time here. The major players are back in place, as far as I can tell.”

“Wolf’s dead. Red is presumably safe. Grandmother’s back at home,” John agreed. “Even if she is technically....”

“Locked in a closet, yes,” Sherlock finished. “But that shouldn’t matter. She’s in place.”

“Right,” John said. “You’re right. Okay. Windows. Last time I checked, the exit was at the corner of a window. Lots of these old fairy tales are set up like that.” He glanced quickly at Sherlock. “God, you don’t think it’s in the closet --”

“Plenty of other possibilities,” Sherlock said, sweeping past John to peer at the diamond-paned window next to Grandmother’s bed. “Come on, John.”

A scant few minutes later John pulled back an embroidered curtain in the cottage sitting room to find a telltale ripple warping the thin seam where glass joined wood. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock appeared at his side within seconds. “Excellent.”

Working quickly, John edged the tips of his fingers into what should have been a solid seam and felt for the give of paper. It had been ages since he’d done this. He fumbled twice before his thumbnail slid into the seam and caught it. He blew out a breath: the rules. “Sorry, it’s been a while -- would you check --”

“Yes, I know.”

John kept his thumb in the seam as they did a final scan of the room. No noise, no other inhabitants. “Clear,” Sherlock said.

Holding his breath, John lifted the seam. The window began to peel apart, its three-dimensional panes falling flat with nauseating distortion. The wall beneath the window curled like the page of a book, revealing an inky, rectangular hole in the side of the cottage that seemed to pull lamplight from the room.

John’s throat tightened. It had been so long.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said gravely. “I -- you had no reason to help me. I very nearly broke your story. It was unintentional.”

A breeze swirled up from the impossible hole and caught the edge of Sherlock’s coat. John swallowed and forced a wry grin. “It’s not my story. You’re welcome to break it again sometime.”

Sherlock put a hand gingerly on the seam of the exit and gave John a rueful smile. “I don’t think that would be wise. Enjoy the peace and quiet, there should be plenty of that now.” He hesitated, his smile faltering. “It was -- nice. Meeting you.”

“Wait -- Sherlock. Where will you --”

“There are an infinite number of stories. One’s bound to work out.” Sherlock dipped a shoulder into the exit, darkness lapping at his long coat. He paused, then nodded, once. “Goodbye, John.”

Sherlock dropped backward into the hole, blackness swallowing him before John could blink.

Well. The end, as it were.

The room seemed to spin. John closed his eyes.

He thought of the quiet walk back to his cabin, the way the stars would glint through the spidery branches overhead. His cabin would appear in the dark, framed in its cocoon of foliage, and embers would be glowing in the grate when he pushed open the door. He would hang up his axe and stoke the fire, because he was never out late and the cabin would be cooler than usual. And then he would make a cup of tea and bring it to bed with a candle. Maybe heat the hot water bottle tonight.

That would be good. Comforting, after the day he’d just had. Exactly what he needed.

And tomorrow would begin, the sameness restored. Perhaps John would walk down to the brook.

He opened his eyes and squinted at the casual way the room collapsed into itself around the exit. The curtains rippled with the tail end of the breeze that had enveloped Sherlock. Lamplight blurred the pattern on Grandmother’s patchwork quilt. The wind was dying, pulling the last traces of strangeness into the black hole that had already begun to close.

John took a step forward, shut his eyes again, and fell.

* * *

He stumbled through the library in a haze of half-memory, because no one was meant to remember this place. He recognised the stacks, though, musty and careworn, candles heavy with dripping wax affixed to the walls at distant intervals. It was difficult to focus his eyes in the dark, and for a horrific moment John feared that he’d never find a trace of Sherlock’s passage among the infinite panes.

John took a breath in the still room, and one pane creaked nearby. He peered down the nearest row, ignoring the vertigo of endless panes, candles, archways, doors, repeating in all directions. The library did not exist in real space; navigating it was a matter of intent rather than movement. John made a guess and stepped into the row he’d thought the sound had come from, sweeping a hand along the wooden frame of one pane. It was cold. His heart began to rattle noisily.

The second pane on the right felt familiar, well-used, although the antiquated lock on its latch marked it as static. Dust and silence sifting through the air in the candlelight told John that most of the other panes here were likely static, as well.

This lock, though. This lock had been recently unlatched. John peered at it, and if he didn’t know better, he’d guess the lock had been picked. Which was an impossibility, because everyone in the library had a set of keys.

It had to be this one.

John fumbled for his keys, which were still in his pocket despite the length of time he’d been gone. The first one, burnished gold, fit into the lock, and the heavy mass of glass and wood swung open on silent, oiled hinges. It was dark on the other side.

John stepped in, closed the pane behind him, and locked it.

* * *

A hallway faded into life around John, warm and quiet, the colour of the ticking-striped wallpaper washed out by the dim light. The nearest door was ajar, and John knew enough to open it.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here. But now that the door was open, the inexorable tug of a story’s beginning curled around him gently, and he stepped through.

The room on the other side wore its darkness like a comfortable quilt. The only light came from a large picture window on the far side, casting star-flecked shadows of deep blue across the floor. Three beds, children's toys, a dog kennel in the corner, all arrayed in such a familiar fashion that John had a disquieting moment of wondering whether he’d stumbled into his own childhood home. But no... It was too comforting, too purely lovely to belong to the slightly dilapidated memories of John’s past.

As John stood, eyes adjusting to the light, he realised that he could hear quiet, rhythmic breathing. A dark shape slumped against the wall behind one of the beds, near a rocking-horse. To John’s vast relief the shape revealed itself to be Sherlock Holmes, still wrapped in his heavy wool coat, knees drawn up against his chest. Though he looked to be asleep, his eyes flew open when John took a step toward him. He looked so blazingly shocked that John stepped back again.

“Sorry, I --”

“John?”

“It’s me. You okay?”

Sherlock sat up straighter against the pale, striped wallpaper. “Fine. M’fine.” His brow furrowed, a deep line creasing the bridge of his nose. “Why are you here?”

John felt his face flush, not even sure if he knew the answer. He fumbled for something that seemed to make sense. “I, uh. I didn’t have anything on, really, and I thought -- I thought you might need -- you know. In case something happened again.” He swallowed. “Didn’t think you should be running around alone.”

Sherlock’s expression hardened. “You’re not going to turn me in.”

John started in surprise. The thought hadn’t even occurred, and he wondered now why it hadn’t. “God, no.” He gestured toward the door. “But I can leave. If you want.”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly, although his eyes didn’t meet John’s. “No, that’s -- that’s fine.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall again. “Thank you.”

John nodded. When Sherlock said nothing, he looked around again, then sat down hastily on the nearest bed. “Has anything happened yet?”

“Here? No.” Sherlock glanced around the room. “I imagine this isn’t the starting point. I try to avoid those if I can.”

“Makes sense,” John said automatically, then paused. “No, actually. No, none of this makes sense.”

Sherlock exhaled. “If I explain, the chances aren’t statistically very good that you’ll believe me.”

“I’m crap at statistics, if it helps.”

This earned a weak smile from Sherlock, which slowly faded into a grave expression. “I’d be taking my life in my hands if I told you.”

John nodded.

Sherlock studied John’s face as John’s heart skipped against his ribs. At last Sherlock nodded in return, glancing around again as if the silence around them wasn’t quite enough security. John took the hint and folded himself against the wall next to Sherlock. They sat listening for a minute in unspoken agreement, Sherlock’s face tipped toward the blue light of the large window.

“You can deduce what I am,” he said at last. “It’s quite simple.”

John stared, incredulous. “I thought this was serious.”

“It is,” Sherlock said. “Start with what you know. I’m not a storyteller. Now, you have proof.”

“What proof?”

“Don’t be daft, John. Look at me.”

“Just bloody _tell me_ \--”

“ _Look._ ”

The note of command in Sherlock’s voice stilled the complaint in John’s throat.

“You look... tired,” John offered weakly.

Sherlock sighed. “And?”

“And you’re... you’re wearing your coat. The coat you had on in the last story,” John said, as dawning realisation became disbelief. “Same trousers, same shirt... how is that possible? My clothes have changed, they changed as I stepped through the pane --”

“Storytellers pass unnoticed,” Sherlock said. “I’m not quite so fortunate.”

“You picked the lock.” John’s mind swam, stuttered. “You didn’t have keys.”

“Correct. And once you eliminate what I cannot be, only one answer remains.”

John stared. His mouth felt dry. “You’re not a character. That’s not possible. That’s -- that’s just not possible.”

Sherlock inclined his head in a faint nod. His pale eyes wandered toward the window.

“I don’t believe it,” John whispered.

“I have no reason to lie.”

“How did you -- how did you leave your story?” John’s whisper grew hoarse. “How are you even talking to me? And you know -- bloody hell, you know about the _exits_ , you --”

“I am, as far as I know, the only self-aware character in existence.”

Shock pummeled John’s lungs. Breathing seemed far more challenging than usual.

“By any logic I should be turned in by the first storyteller who finds me,” Sherlock continued, when it became clear that John could say nothing. “But by some stroke of luck you don’t seem to be keen on doing that.”

“No,” John said. “I -- no.”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “Works out for both of us, then.”

“How -- how did this happen to you?” John imagined broken panes in the library, timeline warps, stories half-blown apart: still, nothing could cause this that he knew of.

“Written this way,” Sherlock said simply.

“You’re telling me someone created you,” John said. “Created you with the knowledge of -- of _what you are_.”

“Yes.”

“That’s -- I don’t understand. Your storyteller, was it a mistake? How could they --”

“He was bored.”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed. “You’d have to know him,” he said. “He’d been writing for years. Incredibly brilliant and disillusioned. Terribly tired of writing characters that weren’t intelligent enough for his purposes.”

“Jesus Christ,” John breathed. “What do you mean? What sort of purposes?”

“Murder mysteries. Detective stories. He kept inventing different protagonists, increasingly difficult puzzles. Over time, none of his detectives proved worthy. They stopped surprising him. So he decided to write the most intelligent character he could imagine, a character who would be his intellectual equal in all things, a character who could solve any puzzle he might invent.”

“A character intelligent enough to understand that he’s a character,” John murmured. “Oh my God.”

Their eyes met.

“Now you see,” Sherlock said. “I am, as I said, a consulting detective.”

“But you left your story. You left... him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted back to the dark sky outside the window. “Imagine you knew there were worlds outside your own. An infinite number of places to explore. But you weren’t permitted to ever see them.”

“But it’s -- it’s not safe for you.”

“That’s what he said too, at first. But he underestimated me,” Sherlock said. “Long ago, I found the exit in my own world and found my way into another story. Passing unseen was trivial -- merely the art of hiding in plain sight. I was able to explore other stories without anyone discovering my presence. I do know the rules, and I had no wish to alter timelines.”

“But you -- think of the damage you could have done -- " John's mind reeled. Stories derailed without the knowledge of their authors, characters killed, worlds destroyed by paradox -- “Why risk it?”

Sherlock exhaled, cold and irritated. “Think of what I could discover. No other conscious being has ever been in my position. To walk through stories as neither author nor player, a fly on the wall of the entire process.”

John felt his jaw slacken. He said nothing.

“I did make one error,” Sherlock said, after a moment. “A terribly fatal error. I confided in my creator.”

“You told him... what you wanted to do?”

“I told him I’d left once, and hoped to do it again. I wanted to prove to him that there had been no ill effects. He didn’t take it well.”

John struggled to imagine this and found it nearly impossible. He’d had conversations with his own characters, to be sure, but never with their knowledge of who he was. They’d never known he had _created_ them.

He swallowed. It wasn’t a period in his life he cared to revisit. “What do you mean, he didn’t take it well? He didn’t write you out, clearly.”

“Clearly not,” Sherlock said, his expression flat. “He tried. He found it wasn’t possible.”

“That’s unheard of.”

“I’m afraid most of this is quite unheard of. I’ve made some fascinating discoveries. Unfortunately, many of them have occurred as a byproduct of my creator’s attempts to murder me.”

“ _Murder_ you.”

“Well, you wouldn’t think of it that way, would you?” Sherlock gave him a grim smile. “My apologies.”

“N-no,” John said slowly. So much of this was wrong, as if the world had simply switched the laws of physics without notifying anyone. “I mean.” He rubbed his temples. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to think about this.”

“It’s a storyteller’s role to determine the fate of the characters they create,” Sherlock recited. “Ending a character’s life -- well, ‘writing them out,’ as you like to say -- is an everyday occurrence. But my creator found it wasn’t possible to write me out if I was aware of the process. It simply didn’t work. Ever since, he's been resorting to more creative methods of eliminating my existence.”

“If you’re attempting to end someone’s life, and they’re actually aware of it,” John said slowly, “that would be murder, I guess. Yeah.” He blew out a breath. “God, I’d never thought of it that way.”

“I don’t debate my creator’s right to do it,” Sherlock said. “I just don’t want to die. It’s the way I was written.”

They sat for a moment, John entirely lost for words. The street outside remained silent, save for the occasional rustling of trees.

“Creative methods,” John said at last, feeling more than a little sick. “You said your creator has been using... creative methods.”

“Mmm. His ingenuity can be astounding.”

Sherlock didn’t elaborate. John wasn’t sure it was polite to press further, but curiosity forced out another question before he could stop it. "Is that why Grandmother behaved that way? And the wolf? Your creator, you think he somehow -- changed them?"

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly."

"But there was no one else. I would've known, I would've felt someone else writing there."

"You underestimate his capabilities."

John's thoughts trailed into blank space. “Would I know his name? What else has he written?”

“I doubt you’ve heard of him, considering the length of time you were in Red Riding Hood.”

“Still. In case I do know the name.” John cleared his throat, not believing he was saying this. “I’d like to help.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “You’d like to help me.”

John looked down and studied his shoes -- lace-up boots, this time -- and realised what he was offering seemed ridiculous. He was about to throw in his lot with a _character_. A character who, by all rights, should be returned to his creator. Modified. Erased.

And characters weren’t real. They were inventions. Fabrications. Beautiful wisps of imagination meant to carry out a pantomime.

“I’m not sure how I could help, really,” John said. “But I will. That is, if you could... use the help.”

Their eyes met. Sherlock’s eyes glittered, sharp and pale, and then: soft, uncertain. Surprised.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said. “His name is Moriarty.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as usual to esterbrook & Maz! Updates can often be found on my tumblr, [marsdaydream.tumblr.com](marsdaydream.tumblr.com). 
> 
> To answer a question from last time - no, this wasn’t inspired by Once Upon a Time, although it was inspired by a variety of other things which may become apparent as we go… Anyway, questions and comments always welcome. :)


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

It's been 16 hours since John left his flat. The day has stretched into a fisheye lens of time: a brief blur at home, then a long stint at Baker Street, hours spent tapping out sentences John can barely remember. But his word count’s much higher, so that’s something.

Sherlock's out at the moment, but that’s not unusual. John has learned that predicting the movements of Sherlock Holmes is like attempting to track the path of a single electron in a nuclear reaction.

All in all, the flat looks somewhat tidy, or at least, tidy for 221B. Coals gleam in the grate, evidence of fires started and stoked for days. John cleaned the kitchen when he was last stuck on a bit of dialogue, payback for Sherlock’s insistence on buying dinner. After 16 hours, John shouldn’t feel guilty about going home. This isn’t his flat, after all. And he did meet Sherlock Holmes less than a month ago.

And yet.

John scrawls a note on a piece of scrap paper and leaves it on Sherlock’s desk. _Leftovers in fridge. You should be grateful I didn’t report the severed head._

No, going home to his own flat should not feel as strange as it does, not when he’s spent the day in the company of a mad editor who keeps medical specimens in the refrigerator and uses the kitchen for chemistry experiments. Which, as far as John can tell, have no actual connection to any story Sherlock is editing. Or has ever edited.

John packs up his laptop and puts on his coat. Nearly too late for the Tube; he’ll have to move quickly to catch the last train. Which is strange, really, because he can move quickly. He left his cane at home two days ago and hasn’t needed it since.

Mike was right about the damn cane. John owes him a drink.

John owes Mike rather a lot at the moment, actually. He feels a brief stab of guilt for not getting in touch. He imagines Mike didn’t expect this sort of round-the-clock editing arrangement when he phoned Sherlock’s brother -- it’s not exactly conventional.

Then again, Sherlock’s methods seem to redefine the term “unconventional.” Well, not so much redefine it as put a blazing hot skewer through it.

John lets himself out of the Baker Street flat and pulls the front door shut behind him. The night air stings like a reprimand. He hustles across the street and toward the Tube station, and the blast of hot air that greets him in the underground tunnels is thick with the smell of wet wool coats and grease and metal rails. The last train rattles him toward his destination.

As usual, John’s flat smells of tinned cat food, even though he doesn’t have a cat. He cracks open a window and waits for the cold breeze to take away the odours of vacancy and tuna fish that have permeated the flat in his absence. The breeze does nothing of the kind. It only serves to make the flat cold as well as smelly.

Last week’s pile of mail rests on his counter, a collection of bills cheerfully marked with red “OVERDUE” lettering. For a moment he fervently wishes his flat had a fireplace like Baker Street, because he’d very much like to incinerate the lot. Certainly it would help with the smell.

John shrugs his laptop bag onto the desk and shuffles into the toilet. He’s in bed within ten minutes, so tired he’s almost dizzy, and falls into sleep like a stone dropping into a pond.

* * *

The next morning feels heavy and hazy. John boils water and glares at his overdue notices, resolving to go to Sherlock’s just as soon as he’s had coffee. He flips open his laptop to check the charge on the battery, and then he makes a tremendous mistake.

The story sits open on his laptop, a cluster of documents crawling with words. A single sentence catches his eye. It feels like an age since John started writing; he can barely remember composing this particular phrase. He settles down in front of the screen with his mug and scrolls back to the first chapter.

Half an hour later, his coffee sits cold near his elbow.

His story is shite. No, it’s ridiculous shite. If his laptop was on fire, John would not cross the street to piss on it. For a moment John actually considers enacting this scenario, but then remembers he’s behind on his rent. Setting electronics aflame near the flat might not be the best way to gain favour with his landlady.

A familiar burn of loathing settles in his stomach, tinged with a generous chaser of humiliation. At least John’s previous attempts at writing had been done alone, no one else privy to his sub-standard ramblings. This time he’s got an audience, and more than that, an audience comprised of the one man in the world John would most like to impress. How Sherlock Holmes shot to the top of that list so quickly is beyond John. But somehow, even after such a short time in his company, John’s positive Sherlock is the most intelligent person he’s ever met. Failing in front of Sherlock seems far worse than all the times John sat alone in his flat deleting paragraphs and outlines. And it’s not just failing in front of Sherlock -- it’s failing with Sherlock’s _help_. While writing about Sherlock himself.

Fucking hell.

Going back to bed seems the only reasonable course of action.

John fights with the broken window shade in his tiny bedroom. He loses. He pulls a clean bedsheet out of his bureau and wedges it into place over the broken shade. The morning light admits defeat, but oozes brightly around the gaps between the sheet and the window frame. John gives up and gets back into bed.

Days pass. Or maybe just one day, it’s hard to tell. Light waxes and wanes behind the sheet draped over John’s window. He eats a bit of toast and his last tin of beans. He fails to shave. He conveniently forgets to charge his phone, and the battery runs out.

It feels like he’s been drained right down to the last line. A blank screen.

* * *

_Delays on the Tube this morning. Take a cab. SH_

_I’ll pay. SH_

* * *

_Out of milk. SH_

_Also biscuits. SH_

* * *

_Mrs Hudson’s gone out. SH_

_Spare key at Speedy’s. Ask for six Napoleons. They’ll give you the key. SH_

_They won’t actually give you six pastries. Although you could still bring some. SH_

* * *

_If you arrive within the hour I can put off a meeting with Anderson. SH_

_Anderson is here. I blame you. SH_

* * *

_You’re not answering your phone. You pick up even when writing. You’re not writing. SH_

_You’ve reread the first chapter. Stop reading. SH_

_Pick up your phone. SH_

_John. SH_

_John. SH_

_JOHN._

* * *

A resounding knock startles John out of a deep sleep. Reality slowly trickles into place behind his eyes. It seems to be dark outside, although it doesn’t feel at all like he should be sleeping at this hour, whatever hour this happens to be. He struggles to sit up; he’s still wearing clothes. His sweat-damp, wrinkled shirt clings to his shoulders.

“I’ll pay you Monday,” John shouts, not even sure what day it is, but praying Monday isn’t it.

Three assertive, follow-up knocks. This doesn’t sound like the landlady, although maybe she’s hired someone imposing to collect payments. Maybe that accounts for the vast overcharge for this paltry flat, which John only pays because it’s London and he can’t imagine being anywhere else.

“Monday,” John shouts again. “Sorry about that, Mrs Presbury!”

A heavy click sends a chill down John’s neck. She’s brought the keys. Or someone has.

He knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s evicted, but he’d been hoping for another month. He’s only paid half the last month’s rent, and he conveniently neglected to pay the month before that. Any reasonable landlord would’ve thrown him out weeks ago. But Mrs Presbury manages so many flats, he was hoping somehow he’d fly under her radar a bit longer.

John jumps to his feet, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He’ll appeal to her motherly side, not that Mrs Presbury has a motherly side. But it’s worth a try. It’s certainly better than the alternative, which is -- well, he’s not sure what it is.

That’s not true. He is sure. The alternative is packing his belongings, taking the train out of London, and begging for a spot on his alcoholic sister’s couch. Which makes Hell seem like a relatively stress-free post code in comparison.

His refrigerator door opens.

“You haven’t got anything to eat,” a deep voice complains.

Relief and surprise wash over John in equal measure. His heartbeat quickens, and he’s halfway out the door of his bedroom before he realises Sherlock somehow unlocked the door to his flat. And knows his home address.

“What,” he says, and stops, because that doesn’t seem to encompass the gaping universe of confusion in his kitchen. He clears his sleep-clogged throat and tries again. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t turn around. He moves the ketchup bottle to the bottom shelf.

“That doesn’t cause food to appear,” John says. “I’ve tried it.”

Sherlock straightens and opens an upper cabinet: paprika, pickled onions, and a dusty box of Bisto. “This doesn’t explain the cat food smell.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

Sherlock snorts. “Obviously.”

“Sherlock,” John says again, irritation at last snapping him into coherence. “You’re in my _flat._ ”

Sherlock shuts the refrigerator with his foot. “Truly, you’re a master of observation.”

“Who let you in?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Well, I think it might be marginally important to know if my locks aren’t working.”

“Your locks are working fine.” Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and tosses a ring with two keys onto John’s counter. “I had a copy made.”

John thinks his eyes might pop out of his head. The keys blur faintly as he blinks. “And you think that’s okay.”

“I thought you might need my help sometime.”

“So you stole my keys and broke into my flat. Under what definition is that ‘helping’?”

“I did not, by definition, break in.”

“I am not getting out the bloody dictionary to show you that ‘breaking in’ involves entry without my prior knowledge or consent.”

“I knocked.”

John braces his hands on the counter and drops his head down. “I can’t do this,” he says, and without meaning to, he’s summed up his life rather neatly.

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I was _sleeping._ ”

“For 36 hours.”

“I was tired. I’ve been working.”

“You were running away,” Sherlock says quietly.

John’s head snaps up. “What?”

“You heard me.”

John holds up a finger. “Wait -- hang on a minute. Hang on.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow.

“This, this -- type of thing. Showing up at my flat. Do you do this for all your clients?”

“I’ve no need to come to your flat for the benefit of my other clients.”

“Jesus Christ. You know what I mean.”

“No,” Sherlock says, his gaze lingering on the pile of mail on John’s counter. “No, it’s not the sort of thing I’ve done for other clients.”

John’s heart rate goes up a notch. “Okay.”

For a moment, Sherlock looks subdued, even uncertain. His hands flex. John’s never seen him look anything other than razor-sharp, and it’s unsettling. An apology begins to form -- he barely knows Sherlock, they’ve been working together less than a month -- “Sorry,” John amends. “Sorry, I --”

“No, I. I realise my method of getting in touch might have been slightly invasive.”

“That’s, um. It’s -- it’s fine.”

Sherlock studies him, an intense, quick scan of a look. “Is it?”

“Yeah, um. You just. Caught me off guard.” John rubs the back of his neck. “Thought you were the landlord.”

“Mmm, I’d gathered.”

Awkward silence settles into the kitchen, punctuated by the drip of the leaky faucet John can’t report to Mrs Presbury, since she’ll probably evict him if he gets in touch.

“Well,” John says after a moment, desperate to break the dripping quiet, “I, um. I’d offer you some food, but I think you’ve just seen the menu.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “I prefer chips with my ketchup.”

John ventures a half-grin. “Yeah, um. Sadly, I’m clean out.”

“Let’s phone in, then. Thai?” Sherlock fishes for his mobile, then swipes a thumb across the screen, not looking up. “My treat.”

John’s heart rate, which had been settling down, kicks up a notch again. “Sherlock --”

“You’ll pay me back when we sell this book.”

John exhales. “Christ, you’re a stubborn bastard, did you know that?”

Sherlock smirks, still not meeting his eyes.

* * *

“You shouldn’t go back and read your earlier chapters,” Sherlock says, setting his empty carton of green chicken curry on the floor. John’s flat is slightly lacking in the furniture department.

John feels the muscles in his neck knot with tension. He shifts on his IKEA folding chair. “There’s a vote of confidence. That good, are they?”

Sherlock’s mouth forms a thin, annoyed line. “Rereading your earlier chapters will stall your momentum. The object at this point is getting words onto the page.”

“You think I should continue.”

“Of course.”

“With this story. The one I’m writing.”

“Yes.”

John feels his stomach lurch, too aware of the taste of his tikka masala. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Working with you, it’s been -- well, it’s been amazing. But I can’t do this. I mean, it’s ridiculous. I’ve no idea why I should keep on with this story.”

Sherlock leans back precariously, managing to give his wobbly folding chair the aura of a posh leather recliner. “You should keep on with it because you’re ordinary.”

John laughs despite the plummeting sensation in his chest. “For someone with a near-genius grasp of the English language, you have a very interesting way of giving compliments.”

Sherlock manages to convey both amusement and impatience with the corner of his mouth. “It’s not meant as a compliment.”

“Good. I won’t take it as one.”

“What I mean is,” Sherlock says, “you’re ordinary, in that you’re just like other writers. You hate what you’ve written at this stage. Every other writer feels the same.”

John gropes for something to say and doesn’t find it.

“The pattern of writing a story rarely varies,” Sherlock adds, unfazed by John’s silence. “There’s an initial burst of energy. You’re carried along by this energy until it wears off, and then you look back. No one likes what they see when they look back, not when they’re in the middle of a project. You’ve written books, John. You should remember this. But often there’s a sort of amnesia after the fact.”

And just as Sherlock says it, John remembers. Of course. The times he wanted to throw his laptop out the window during _Three Continents_ , the nights he swore he’d abandon the entire affair, wishing he was back in Afghanistan instead of facing his shoddy first draft. Damn it. Of course Sherlock is right.

And damned if Sherlock isn’t going to get him back on the horse after John vowed he was finished. After John had decided he wasn’t even going near a stable again.

John scrabbles weakly for a rejoinder, but it’s not in his heart to argue. “I’ve, um. I’ve heard it’s a good idea to look back once in a while, though.”

“For some writers, yes.”

“I take it I’m not one of them.”

“No.” Sherlock smiles, but it lacks much of the edge of his usual grin. “No, you’re not. Wait till you’ve finished.”

“Until I’ve finished.” John can’t hide the incredulity in his voice. As if he’ll finish. As if this thing he’s writing will someday have an end.

“Yes.”

Irritation and admiration wash over him, the same strange muddle of feelings John always battles in Sherlock’s presence. “Fair enough,” he manages. He reaches for the glass of water at his feet. “And if I do decide to go on with this... folly. Any other words of wisdom?”

“I think you should move in with me,” Sherlock says.

Time seems to swirl into slush. A beat thuds in John’s ears, the hollow echo of a dripping faucet. Or maybe that’s his pulse.

“Let me save you some time. Yes, I’m serious. No, I’m not joking. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs. And no, I’m really not joking.”

John manages to get words out of his too-dry throat. “Look, that’s really nice of you, Sherlock, but --”

Sherlock leans back in his folding chair and gestures at the sitting room. “But you’d miss the ambiance?”

Caught off-guard, John huffs a laugh. “This place is fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

John’s chuckling now. “And you’re a dick.”

“I’m merely stating the truth.”

“As am I.”

Sherlock laughs, then, and a wide, lopsided smile lights his eyes. It’s a heady feeling to be on the receiving end of Sherlock’s rare, genuine smile. John lets out a breath and grins back.

“That’s settled, then.”

“No, wait. Nope. No, I haven’t said anything, Sherlock. First off, I can barely afford this neighbourhood, and you live in central bloody London.”

“You can’t afford any neighbourhood, John.”

Anger bristles against John’s unexpected buzz of joy.“Oh, right. Because you’ve cracked the passcode to my bank account as well? You’ve already hacked into my laptop and taken my keys. Should I hand over my birth certificate, or did you already send for that? My middle name’s Hamish, if it saves you time.”

Sherlock’s expression shutters. “I don’t need to hack into anything to see you’re about to be evicted. Any idiot could tell you that.” He gestures at John’s counter. “Pile of unpaid bills, three overdue notices. Dripping faucet, broken window -- no, two broken windows -- all unreported, but you can’t call the landlord, because she’ll ask why you haven’t paid the rent. Obvious.”

“This thing you do, where you know everything? I wish you wouldn’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He stands up, stooping to pick up his empty carton, and walks over to drop it in the bin under John’s sink.

A sudden thought occurs.

“Mike Stamford,” John says. “Mike put you up to this.”

“A nice idea, but no.” Sherlock puts a leftover carton of rice into John’s fridge. “I was asked to consider editing your work. I agreed. I was under no obligation to take you on as a client. My correspondence with Mike Stamford ended there.”

The truth in Sherlock’s tone begins to register. John feels a helpless sort of inevitability, the sort that feels like sunlight on the warm, dusty floorboards of Baker Street. It feels like he’s falling toward something far beyond what he deserves.

He tries to protest this inexplicable glimmer of good fortune.“Sherlock, it’s really nice of you. I appreciate it. But I could never afford to live with you. You’ve just said as much. I -- look, I can’t even pay rent here. My time’s run out in London. This was -- it was a fantasy, really.”

“I need an assistant,” Sherlock says.

“An assistant.”

“I’m not daft enough to think you could pay rent, John. Eventually, perhaps, but until then, I need an assistant. I find paperwork incredibly tedious. I rarely have time to complete any files on my clients. I need someone to sit in on client meetings and take notes. You’ve seen what my schedule is like -- an assistant who works conventional business hours would be useless to me.”

John’s jaw goes slack. He swallows. “Sherlock, there are probably piles of Oxbridge-educated hopefuls who’d line up for a chance to be your assistant.”

“And all of them are imbeciles. I went to school with them.”

“I’m not really qualified. I didn’t even get my A-levels in English, I’m a bloody _doctor._ ”

“The only qualification I require is that I shouldn’t feel the need to murder my assistant on an hourly basis.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“I’d believed it to be impossible.”

Sherlock’s look, weighty and intent, holds the words he’s not saying. A thrill flutters in John’s chest, and he can’t seem to produce a response that’s nearly adequate. His GUNDE chair gives an ominous squeak.

“I have an appointment tomorrow morning at half nine with a man who thinks he can rewrite a Thomas Hardy novel from the perspective of the family dog,” Sherlock says.

John clears his throat. “Right.”

Sherlock’s smile is faint, like a gleam of light from the window’s edge in John’s bedroom. He reaches for the coat he’s hooked to the back of John’s door and shrugs it on. “Bring your laptop.”

John stands up. “I didn’t say yes yet, Sherlock --”

“Half nine.” Sherlock knots his scarf around his neck. “We can send someone for your things later on. Not that you’ve got much.”

“Hang on a minute, will you? I told you, I didn’t say yes.”

Sherlock’s nearly out the door, but stops. He pauses for a moment, then turns back, eyes bright with amusement. “Hamish?”

John can’t help a wide, exasperated grin. “Shut _up._ ”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock says, and shuts the door.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual round of thanks to my supremely great betas, esterbrook & Maz. Continued thanks as well to those who've commented, it's been so much fun to hear your feedback!


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

“Never heard of him,” John said.

Sherlock wasn’t listening. He’d squinted to focus on the wall across from them, its sandy-pink ticking stripe barely visible in the dark. “There’s something on the wall,” he said, voice low enough to raise the hairs on the back of John’s neck.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t see it before.” Sherlock began to uncurl himself slowly, the warmth of his wool coat disappearing from John’s side. “That’s not possible. I examined the room when I got in.”

“You’re sure? Maybe you didn’t notice.”

Sherlock shifted his focus to glare at John. “Not possible.”

John held up an appeasing hand. “Okay.”

“I thought I had _time_ before something happened.” Sherlock edged closer to the offending wall.

John stood slowly, but couldn’t see much from across the room. Shifting blue shadows, rumpled bedclothes. A scattered toy or two propped in the corner. “What’s happened?”

Sherlock traced a long, elegant finger down a lower part of the wall, and John could just barely make out a line of something shiny, some sort of particle that glinted in the light. Abandoning caution, John hurried over to where Sherlock stood by one of the beds.

“We need more light,” Sherlock muttered. “There’s something written here, but it’s too dark to properly see it.”

“I don’t know where --” John began, trailing off as he realised that yes, he _did_. He did know where to find a light here, he knew the same way he knew he had a scar on his left shin from falling out of a tree at nine years old. He never looked for the scar, but he knew it was there, always just beyond his attention.

This room was like that.

“There’s a night-light in here,” John amended, casting about for it -- and there it was, of course, and no, there were three lights, there always had been. “Three of them, and there’s a fireplace, too, I’ll just get the matches --” which were in a small china dish with a pattern of pink flowers, just as John remembered. He struck a match, then lit the wick of the nearest lamp, watching it flare, soft and golden.

“You’ve been here before,” Sherlock murmured, still peering at the wall.

“I think so,” John said, chasing after the reason he knew this and not quite finding it. He picked up the night-light and found Sherlock with it instead. The little light wavered, as if it had been napping and had only just woken up. “Have you?”

“I...” Sherlock’s finger stilled on the wallpaper. “I don’t know. I think... perhaps.” He paused. “It feels that way, with a lot of these places.”

John held out the little lamp, which bathed the wall in a honey-coloured glow. Flecks of gold gleamed in a bright streak against the pink wallpaper. John moved the lamp, and no -- it was a shape. A letter. Something had been written on the wall in glinting particles only visible in the flickering lamplight.

“ _HELP US_ ,” Sherlock read aloud.

A quiet panic gripped John’s insides, nameless fear clutching at him with small fingers. “This isn’t right.”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock breathed, straightening up. “Don’t move, don’t -- this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

“The children -- they’re not here.” John felt as if he was grasping at a dream that had gone wrong, sliding out of his memory and leaving a sense of dread. “The children who live here. Their parents, they’re out tonight -- the children should be here now, they should still be home.” John swallowed against doubt. “Shouldn’t they?”

Sherlock scanned the room, uncertain. “I -- yes. Yes, I think so.”

John suddenly knew where he was. With this blink of realisation came a lurch of nausea, and he closed his eyes. Not this story. He wasn’t attached to most of the others, but this one -- Christ, not _this_ one.

John’s copy of this particular story was still in a trunk locked up somewhere in his old cottage. It was an old, silver-grey hardback that had long since lost its dust jacket, with black line drawings etched into the woven fibres of the cover. He remembered tracing his fingers over the lettering, the book’s corners worn smooth, the spine cracked so badly that pages threatened to spill out in a mutiny of glossy text. _All children, except one, grow up._

Maybe this explained the pull John had felt when he saw Sherlock in this room, slumped against the familiar wallpaper. Maybe John had sensed that something was wrong, that this particular story had already been broken. It was certainly more logical than any other explanation.

“The bedclothes are disturbed, but that’s clearly from play,” Sherlock was saying as John opened his eyes. “The children bathed tonight, and the fire was lit earlier. But -- ah, they didn’t go without a struggle --” He crouched mid-thought, bending to peer underneath the bed nearest to the wall. He came up again in a moment, rubbing thumb and forefinger together, and opened his hand. The pads of his fingers glittered faintly. “One of the children hid under the bed, here -- that’s how the message was written. Low on the wall, nearly obscured by shadow. It’s why I didn’t see it. They’d managed to get their hands on some of this powder -- it’s luminescent, but only when light hits it. Maybe this child was a fan of spy stories; it was a clever thought.”

“John likes adventure stories,” John said, his gut twisting.

Sherlock blinked at him. “I’m aware you like adventure stories. No need to lapse into third person.”

“ _Darling_ ,” John corrected. Now that he’d realised where he was, it seemed idiotic he hadn’t known it from the moment he’d entered. It seemed even more idiotic that Sherlock, who seemed sharper than anyone had a right to be, hadn’t figured it out. Sometimes, with old stories, it was possible to wander for hours before plot and characters snapped into recognition. But this one -- this should have been obvious.

Sherlock’s eyes widened momentarily. He considered John for a moment, opened his mouth, and closed it again. His brow furrowed, a line creasing the bridge of his nose. “John, um. I think you should know I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest --”

John blanched. “No,” he interjected. “No, I didn’t call you -- no. No.”

Sherlock studied him quizzically. “You said --”

“John Darling. One of the children who lives here. In this story, this incredibly well-known static story.”

He gave Sherlock an expectant look. Sherlock returned it with an equally expectant look.

John caught himself, guilt-stricken. “Wait. I’m sorry. You’re a _character._ I keep forgetting.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I do happen to know most static stories. I’ve read books, like anyone else. Moriarty may have invented my past, but it’s functional nonetheless.”

John tried not to boggle too much at this. “But you don’t recognize where we are.”

“You didn’t recognize where we were either, until a moment ago.” Sherlock’s scowl deepened. “I find it incredibly irritating when I can’t immediately identify my surroundings, so you could continue to insult my state of being, or you could make yourself _useful._ ”

They were standing close together, although John wasn’t sure when that had happened. Sherlock’s eyes scanned his, tiny flicks of uncertain movement. John’s heart quickened in response, at the strangeness of it all: the odd miracle of Sherlock’s sharp gaze, the visible exhaustion beneath it. The way Sherlock stood as if commanding the room, at home and utterly alien all at once.

John took a breath and gestured at the bedroom. “Right, okay. Three beds, three children. One dog -- there’s a doghouse in the corner. Big picture window. Ring any bells?”

Sherlock’s irritation didn’t abate.“I delete things from time to time.”

“Why would you delete things?”

“I’m a consulting detective.” He tapped the side of his skull. “This is my hard drive. It only makes sense to put things in here that are useful.”

“But -- you deleted _Peter Pan_?”

Sherlock stopped, blinked. He took a step back, then looked around again slowly. “ _Peter Pan_ ,” he echoed, all traces of irritation gone, voice resonant with pleasure. “Of _course_.”

“Of course you _deleted_ it?”

“No, no. I just didn’t see it right away. You’ve no idea how many stories I’ve seen in the past few --” Sherlock waved a hand. “Days, I suppose. Weeks? Time is a useless variable when shifting through multiple storylines.” His pale eyes flared. “Pirates.”

“You think this could be pirates.” John pointed at the glittering inscription.

“No, this is the story with _pirates_ ,” Sherlock said eagerly.

“Ye-es,” John hedged. “This is relevant how?”

Sherlock fixed John with a look of renewed intensity. “We both know this story, we’ll be able to tell what’s out of place. If we can predict what Moriarty might have done to set the characters against me, we’ll be ahead of the game.”

John’s brain stuttered. “There’s been a _kidnapping_.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. “Yes. A kidnapping. To distract me, I’m sure. He loves to strike when my guard is down.”

John nearly grinned back, caught up in Sherlock’s excitement, but: no. Christ, that wasn’t good. “Sherlock, these are _kids_. Primary school kids. Sod whatever Moriarty’s planning, we need to get them _back._ ”

Sherlock had started to pace. He threw himself to the ground, peering underneath each bed, and then stood up and began rifling through a chest of drawers. “It’s all one and the same, don’t you see? Find the children, find the source of the corruption. It’s all a game -- a puzzle.” Sherlock’s tone turned bitter. “Meant for me to solve, of course. He knows I can’t resist. He counts on it.”

Sherlock tossed several drawers’ worth of tiny clothes onto John Darling’s unmade bed, then moved on to the second bureau. John watched, feeling unaccountably useless.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, after Sherlock had hastily upended the contents of three more drawers and started on a fourth.

“I’ll know when I see it,” Sherlock muttered.

“Ah. Okay.”

“Shouldn’t we, um. Check the rest of the house?” John offered, after another few minutes of Sherlock’s silent absorption.

“Yes.” Sherlock swept a finger across the surface of a bureau and inspected it.

John cleared his throat. “I’ll, um. I’ll go do that, then.”

The house was oddly quiet, but showed signs of recent occupation. The kitchen still smelled faintly of onions and some sort of roast. All the doors and windows were locked from the inside, but somehow, John hadn’t expected anything different. Upstairs, the bedroom that certainly belonged to Mr and Mrs Darling was tidy and warm, a few cufflinks discarded on a bureau, the faint scent of perfume lingering near Mrs Darling’s vanity. Nothing out of place, the house set like a stage that had gone dark just as the curtain went up.

“Nothing,” John said as he opened the nursery door. “Doors locked, windows locked. No one else at home --”

Sherlock held something aloft, something the colour of shade, a thing that did not so much absorb light as defy it. The thing unfurled from his hands, a wavering shape of legs and arms and the ragged edges of leaves.

John forgot to breathe. “Oh,” he said.

“Peter didn’t come tonight, or he’d have left with this,” Sherlock said, watching the shape stretch and lengthen until it hung limply from his hands like a filmy, boy-shaped curtain.

“He could still come.”

“No,” Sherlock said grimly. “There’s also the matter of the dog.”

“What’s the matter with the dog?”

“She has a very loud bark. Curious.”

“But the dog isn’t barking.”

“That’s what’s curious.”

John’s mouth fell open before he could stop it.

“The dog -- their nursemaid -- she barks when she senses danger. But it’s perfectly quiet. Whoever’s taken the children has also taken the dog.”

“Who would want to take a dog?”

Sherlock smiled grimly, rolling up the shadow and putting it in his coat pocket. “Someone intent on making sure this story would be difficult to repair.”

“So someone’s just made off with three children and a very large dog.”

“And the maid.”

John stared. “The maid.”

“Of course.”

Nothing about this seemed possible. “All the doors are locked. Did the kidnapper have a key?”

Sherlock strode over to the huge nursery window, stepped onto the upholstered window seat, and pulled at the window. It swung inward with almost no effort. Night air wafted in, a cool current tinged with the promise of snow. Four floors up, the neighboring windows glowed, orange lamplight winking against the deep blue shadows between buildings.

“But if Peter didn’t come, then how --”

“We know he didn’t,” Sherlock said, patting his coat pocket.

“So we’re dealing with a kidnapper who can climb,” John said slowly.

Sherlock traced a finger along the window frame, then leaned out over the edge of the window to examine the outside. He swayed for a second, steadying himself with one hand on the edge of the frame. “Careful!” John yelped, unable to help it.

Sherlock ducked back inside and hopped off the seat, ignoring rather than obeying John’s plea. “We’re dealing with a kidnapper who can _fly_ ,” he said, rubbing his hands together with something like glee.

It shouldn’t have been glee. It probably was.

“Oh, Christ,” John said, possibilities sparking in his mind like a wriggling, lit fuse. “You don’t think _Peter’s_ been corrupted.”

Sherlock reached out to underline a mark in the chipped paint of the window frame -- a deep gouge that had scored the wood. “Not unless Peter’s in the habit of wearing a hook.”

John blinked at the gouge, a raw scar against the window’s white paint. “Captain Hook’s come here. To London.”

Sherlock pointed. “Someone’s tied a rope to the pipe nearest the window -- there are clear scuff marks where the soot’s been disturbed. The roof’s been scraped in several places, with at least two slate tiles knocked out -- they’re down on the street. Something very large has recently bumped up against the roof, something that was probably tied up just outside this window.”

“Hook flew the pirate ship here.”

“Yes. Anchored it to that pipe, entered the nursery just after the Darling parents left. The window was unlocked -- the children were expecting Peter.” Sherlock picked up the lit lamp once more. “And then, of course, there’s this.”

Sherlock held the lamp out over the windowseat. Tiny glimmers of dust hit the light, a scattered constellation across the upholstery.

A scene formed in John’s mind, small, kicking feet and heavy footsteps, a few muffled shrieks, stiff rope and tiny wrists. And a flickering light, a cacophony of panic jangling in tiny, furious bells.

“Hook’s got Tinkerbell. That’s how he flew the ship. He must -- he must have Peter too.”

“There’s no way of knowing, but it’s likely.”

John blew out a long breath. “That’s it, then. How can we follow them? What are we going to do, hail a passing spaceship? Steal a flying car?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You’re a _writer_.”

A writer. Yes, John was a writer, wasn’t he?

John’s lungs felt too small; words shrivelled away on his tongue. His notebook slid into his inside breast pocket, heavy and square-edged, there because he’d been reminded of it. His pen was tucked next to it, even though he sometimes gave it away or tossed it into the woodpile or tried to lose it in a winter coat. His hands went damp with the clammy sort of sweat he’d come to associate with blank pages.

John tilted his chin up to hide the tight set of his jaw. “Retired, remember? Right now I think the dog would be more use to you, frankly.”

Sherlock studied him, sharp eyes raking over John’s clenched fists. Heat rose in John’s face, and then Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “The _dog_. We didn’t check --” He snatched up the lamp again, holding it ahead of him as he followed some unseen path on the floor. Tiny traces of dust hit the light, specks of gold spread wide across the swirled carpet pattern. He came abruptly to the dog kennel in the corner, got to his knees, and peered inside, then made a muffled noise of triumph. In a moment he was standing up with something in his hand, something glittering in the light of the lamp he’d forgotten on the floor.

* * *

“I saw you’ve written up the notes for the dog novel. The Thomas Hardy one.”

“Mm, yeah. What did you think?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “‘The Hound of the D’Urbervilles?’”

“It needed a title.”

“Notes don’t need titles.”

“My notes do.”

“I see.”

Rain patters against the windows of 221B, now inexplicably John's new home address. Sherlock pokes at the fire and settles back into his chair, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. “You’re not happy with your current chapter.”

“Brilliant deduction. I haven’t been happy with any chapter.”

“I’ve told you not to think about it.”

John sets his laptop on a side table and scrubs a hand across his face. His neck is stiff from hours in his armchair; his knees feel locked in place. He stretches and hears the clicks and pops of his joints complaining in chorus. “It’s not exactly easy _not_ to think about the thing I’m writing. You know, while I’m writing it.”

“Can you pinpoint what’s not working at the moment?”

“Well, let's start with the fact that I'm writing a story that has its origins in a drunken email."

Sherlock gives him a look that could derail a Bakerloo train. John sighs, reeling in his annoyance. "No, I can’t -- no. If I knew why it wasn’t working, I’d fix it.”

“No. If you knew why it wasn’t working, you’d just complain about it. Until then, you’ll complain about not knowing.”

John fails to glower at Sherlock. “That predictable, am I?”

“I could set my watch by your regular whining habits.” Sherlock looks at his wrist for emphasis, then sighs. “New client in five minutes. Probably outside already, given the bus schedule this morning.”

John stands up, grateful to shift the topic away from his story -- which is temporarily stalled, mid-scene -- and takes stock of the dirty dish situation. It’s not terrible, but he gathers up his mug and Sherlock’s plate of half-eaten biscuits and carries them to the kitchen sink. Sherlock, as is his custom with new clients, doesn’t seem to be preparing for the meeting in any way. Instead, he sinks more deeply into his armchair, legs splayed as if to protest his chair’s failure to be a hammock.

John tosses a few loose papers onto the towering stack on Sherlock’s side of the table and moves his laptop to what is now his own side of the table, rifling for his notebook in the litter of random objects nearby. He finds it, then nudges the curtain aside to peer out the window. A young woman in a dark anorak and long, striped scarf is lingering outside their door. As John watches, she turns and walks back down the block past Speedy’s, briefcase under her arm.

“Client’s here -- wait, maybe not.” John watches the woman walk back to their front door, hesitate, then turn away to walk back toward Regent’s Park. She stops, checks her watch, and turns around again. “She’s on her way -- no. No, she’s stopped. She’s -- is she leaving? No, here she comes.”

Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes. “She’s the new client, she’s boring. Oscillation on the pavement always means it’s a romance novel.”

John smirks as the doorbell buzzes at last. He crosses the room to open the sitting room door and glances down at Sherlock, who’s sitting up now, assuming his usual impassive air of authority. The corners of Sherlock’s eyes crinkle, just for a moment, and then his expression shifts, distant and cold.

Something warms the tense edges of John’s mood. It feels as if he’s been allowed a backstage pass while hordes of fans wait just outside the theatre. Somehow, he’s allowed to see Sherlock from all angles, not just the sharp, polished facet Sherlock presents in client meetings. Each day a few writers pass through the flat, accepting Sherlock’s critiques as if collecting an autograph -- grateful, awed, more than a little bit nervous. Unlike John, not one of them has stayed for tea or takeaway. Not one of them jokes with Sherlock, asks him round to the pub, or mentions anything other than work. It makes no sense that John, of all people, should feel like he’s known Sherlock for years. Especially since John moved in less than 36 hours ago.

John’s room upstairs is almost, but not quite, one million times better than his old flat. It’s furnished with an old brass four-poster bed and a wobbly bureau, and it’s papered in yet another Mrs Hudson special, a dark green damask the colour of topiary hedges. It’s even got a tiny arched fireplace in one corner, which is a good thing considering the questionable radiator on the second floor. John loves it like he’s never loved anyplace else, which is to say that he’s spent much of his first three days trying to adjust to sudden bliss.

Not that living with Sherlock is an easy path to bliss. Thus far, John has snapped at his new flatmate for leaving toxic chemicals in the kitchen sink, had his bath towel repurposed for a mould experiment, and put up with Sherlock’s half-day strop over a disagreement with a client’s publisher. John feels about two minutes away from strangling Sherlock at all times, which doesn't quite mesh with John's inexplicable desire to listen to anything and everything Sherlock has to say.

Then there’s the writing.

Well, that’s it, really. John is writing. He gets up in the morning and puts on the kettle and reads the news and checks Sherlock’s calendar and then he just goes. Sometimes it’s 50 words, sometimes 500. He still stalls a bit, but miraculously, he’s been managing to push through. Sherlock usually wanders in at some point and may or may not fetch tea or putter on the laptop or dash out of the flat. John doesn’t really notice, not until he’s been at it for half the day, or a client buzzes the doorbell.

John hates his story, of course -- that, at least, hasn’t changed. But his intense dislike merely simmers away while he types, an ache that can be ignored while fingers move slowly over keys. Writing is starting to become a rhythm, like brushing his teeth, something that nags at him until he’s cleared his mind of it. And writing up client notes for Sherlock fills up enough of his remaining time that he hasn’t yet had a chance to sink into one of his patented spirals of self-doubt.

John left his cane at his old flat. He thinks he did, anyway. He can't remember.

Mrs Hudson's unmistakable "woo-hoo!" issues from the hallway, accompanied by a quick rap on their sitting room door. "Boys. Client!"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John says, as the oscillating client herself steps timidly into the flat. John collects her briefcase and coat, then settles into his chair with a notebook while Sherlock directs her to the empty seat in the middle of the room.

"Miss Hooper." Sherlock inclines his head in greeting. "This is my assistant, Dr John Watson. I hope you don't mind that he sits in."

Miss Hooper is sweet-faced, with a straight brown ponytail that's gone limp from the rain. She's younger than John -- by maybe five or six years -- and she's wearing a jumper that manages to evoke both a bookish student and an eccentric old lady who owns forty cats. John likes her immediately.

She glances at John, slightly taken aback. "Oh. Um, it's no problem." She nods politely at him. "I'm Molly.”

John nods back at her, but before their perfunctory greetings get much further, Sherlock interrupts. "The answer is yes."

Molly blinks at Sherlock. "I'm sorry?"

"Yes. Yes, you should put off writing the next book in the series. Your research has been unproductive, you can't find a compelling conflict, and you're far more interested in starting a new project."

"He does this," John offers, after Molly continues to stare.

"You've recently been to the library -- there's a flyer from the current British Library exhibition at the top of your handbag. But you haven't checked out any materials or they'd be weighing down your bag. You clearly haven't been writing lately -- you've been preoccupied with a new idea instead. You've been feeling guilty about it, or you wouldn't have made an appointment to see me."

Molly looks shocked. "How on _earth_ \--"

"You bite your nails, but only when you're not writing, because it interferes with your typing -- and your nails are short at the moment. Ink stains all over your middle finger and thumb -- you've been writing in a notebook instead. Brainstorming, clearly."

"How did you know I've been feeling guilty?"

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "Is there any other reason to consult an editor at this stage?"

"You can stop showing off now," John mutters.

Molly flushes brightly, her cheeks apple-pink, and knits her fingers together in a way that draws John's attention. It reminds John of the way his sister Harry used to act around that buxom grocery clerk at Tesco's, when they were in secondary school, and -- oh.

None of Sherlock's other clients, thus far, have paid Sherlock much heed -- they've all been focused on their laptops, or their printed drafts littered with Sherlock's scrawls of red pen. John watches as Molly Hooper takes in what he’s come to accept as everyday: Sherlock's cut-glass cheekbones, the high arch of his upper lip, the glint in his unearthly eyes, the angelic curl of his lashes. She licks her lips, and John can practically see the cartoon hearts spring to life in her wide brown eyes.

John is utterly unprepared for the stab of possessiveness that jolts through him.

Sherlock's mouth hints at a smile as he watches her, clearly registering her poorly concealed attraction.

John's pen, still clutched in his hand, skids across his open notebook.

Molly attempts to compose herself. “Um. Mr Holmes, I --”

Sherlock’s voice drops to a frequency not unlike the idling purr of a luxury car. “Sherlock, please,” he says, almost exactly the way he’d said it to John just over a month ago. This shouldn’t be unacceptable, and yet it is. John’s grip tightens; his pen scrawls a blot of ink in one margin.

“Sherlock,” Molly amends, which seems to fluster her even more. “You, um. You’re aware of my current series in publication.”

“Of course.”

“Current series?” John echoes. He is not analysing his own state of mind right now. He is not.

“Molly Hooper writes a series of spy novels under a pseudonym,” Sherlock says. “She’s met with some success.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard of the _Hosmer Angel_ books,” Molly adds, with a self-conscious tilt of her head.

John’s jaw goes slack. “You’re, um. You’re Mary Sutherland?” He clears his throat, hoping his voice won’t fail him, because _Mary Sutherland_. This young woman is Mary Sutherland? “Of course I’ve heard of them, I mean. I -- I’ve read a few.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick to John’s: smug, amused. “John’s a writer as well. The _Three Continents_ series.”

In the space of just a few seconds Molly seems to have entirely forgotten John’s presence. She tears her eyes from Sherlock and makes a small, near-visible jump in her chair. “Oh. Oh, that’s lovely. I -- I think I’ve heard of it.” She swallows. “Came out a few years ago? About -- Iraq, was it?”

“Afghanistan,” John says, thinking that removing his trousers right now might be less embarrassing than this conversation. “Quite some time ago, yeah.”

Sherlock smiles as if he’s just arranged a playdate between six-year-olds. “Excellent. Well, as I said, Molly, this new idea you have -- that’s where your focus should be at the moment. You’ve written, what, seven _Hosmer Angel_ novels? I’d give Hosmer a rest for the time being. If you attempt to go back to that series while you’ve got another idea waiting for your attention, you’ll only manage sub-par work at best.”

Molly looks as if every one of Sherlock’s words has been an epiphany. Then her eyes get even wider, and she looks down. “I -- that’s a lovely idea, but I just can’t.”

Sherlock blinks at her; clients rarely flat-out refuse his suggestions. “Why on earth not?”

“It’s not exactly -- that is. It’s not exactly -- well.” Molly looks as humiliated as John felt a moment ago. “That is to say. I couldn’t precisely --”

“Sometime this year, Miss Hooper.”

Words fail Molly for a moment, during which her gaze lingers on the tight smile gracing Sherlock’s full mouth. At last, she seems marginally capable of speech. “Um,” she says, in a shaky, measured tone. “Mr Holmes -- er, Sherlock. I was hoping to work with you on the next book in the _Hosmer Angel_ series. I thought my agent told you, when he got in touch.”

“As a general rule, I don’t listen to agents.”

“Oh. Um.”

“This idea you have, it’s not a genre you’ve written before. Romance novel, I take it?”

Molly lets out a small squeak, then closes her mouth. Turning nearly purple, she nods faintly.

Sherlock gives her a pointed look. “Miss Hooper, you already write under a pseudonym. It’s as simple as choosing a different pseudonym for your romance novel. This is not graduate astrophysics.”

“But my agent --”

“Sod your agent. If he knows what’s best for you -- which clearly he does, since he sent you to me -- he’ll know that the next _Hosmer Angel_ book will be far better if you take a brief hiatus to write your romance.”

Molly twists the corner of her jumper in one hand. “It’s just. What will people think?”

“Pseu-do-nym.” Sherlock clips each syllable. “From the Greek ‘pseudes,’ meaning ‘false’ --”

John, watching Molly’s panicked face, has a flash of understanding. He holds up a hand. “Sherlock. I think she means -- people who know her. Personally.” He chances a glance at Molly. “Is that right?”

Molly nods.

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Why should anyone care what people think?”

John tamps down the irritation that so often flares up when Sherlock fails to understand basic human nature. For some reason, Sherlock’s a genius at analysing emotions in text, but he often misses them entirely in real life. “Because people who know Molly might find out what she’s writing.” He glances at Molly. “I mean, I don’t want to put words in your mouth --”

Molly gives him a grateful look. “No, no, it’s okay. That’s -- um. That’s -- yeah, I think that’s close to it.”

Sherlock looks slightly incredulous. “What could be so bad that you wouldn’t want to share it?”

Molly looks even more nervous than a moment ago. “You won’t repeat this.”

Sherlock inclines his head. “All of my client meetings are completely confidential.”

Molly looks between Sherlock and John for a moment, and then seems to come to some kind of decision. She draws herself up very straight in her chair, takes a deep breath, and says, “Necrophilia.”

The silence in 221B threatens to deafen the three of them. Swallowing hard, Molly continues, the rest coming out in a rush.

“I’ve had this idea about two characters who fall in love. One is a woman who works in a morgue, you know, doing post-mortems. And she’s drawn to this -- this dangerous person, this man she encounters at work. Maybe he’s a police officer, or maybe he works in the building -- I don’t know yet. But he’s an anti-hero, almost like a sociopath, and he has certain -- preferences. Kinks. He’s interested at first because she works in the morgue. And she’s attracted to the danger he represents, but doesn’t want to admit it to herself, because -- because it means acknowledging all these dark, hidden parts of her own mind.”

Sherlock steeples his fingers underneath his chin and remains quiet. Molly fixes her attention on the now-frayed sleeve of her jumper.

John clears his throat. “Well, um. That’s --”

Sherlock claps his hands together, a sharp noise that makes John and Molly flinch. “That’s it.”

“What?” Molly says faintly.

“That’s it. Write it. That’s the story you need to write.”

“But --” Molly fumbles. “My agent --”

“I’ll expect something from you in the next week or so. Outlines, notes, a first chapter. Understood?”

Molly’s expression has shifted from terror to something heated, awe tinged with desire.

Of course, John thinks. Molly Hooper, mainstream author, girl next door. Drawn to danger. An anti-hero. Someone almost like a sociopath. He’s seeing it now.

A fresh wave of something bitter and angry engulfs him once more. John puts down his notebook, realising he hasn’t taken down a single word.

“Um,” Molly says, eyes only for Sherlock.

Sherlock actually smiles at her. “Next week. You may go.”

John suddenly needs to move. He stands up abruptly, dropping his notebook on his chair. “Milk,” he blurts.

Both of the room’s other occupants stare at him in surprise. He fumbles to amend this statement. “I mean, I just remembered. We need milk.”

“Clearly an emergency,” Sherlock smirks.

Yes. Unacceptable to be in this room a minute longer.

“Yep. Um. Sorry, gotta dash. Nice meeting you.”

Molly’s standing up as well, looking confused; John shakes her hand awkwardly, gives a half-bow to no one in particular, and grabs his coat.

* * *

The thing is, Sherlock feels like _his_. Sherlock, for whatever reason, has deemed John the one tolerable person in the universe. They’ve gone from strangers to enemies to allies to roommates in less than a month. Sherlock understands him, and for all Sherlock’s failures in reading other social cues, he actually has a bizarre gift for reading _John_.

And it’s no small thing, really, to have a connection like that with Sherlock Holmes. Here’s a man who’s seemingly close to no one, who exists only for his profession, and he’s invited John into an inner circle with only two members: the two of them.

What’s more, John thinks, as he weaves his way through shelves of laundry soap and tinned beans, it makes sense that he should feel possessive of Sherlock. He’s not only living with him, he’s writing Sherlock as a character. He has to study Sherlock closely. He tracks Sherlock’s mannerisms, his moods, the way that deep crease appears between his eyebrows, the sweep of the curl at the back of Sherlock’s neck. In a strange way, Sherlock belongs to him in the way that any of his characters do.

At least, a _version_ of Sherlock belongs to him. Sometimes that line gets a bit blurry.

John looks down to see he’s ended up at the checkout queue with a litre of milk and a head of lettuce. He counts out spare change to pay for it and heads out into the cloudy afternoon, the day’s rain not entirely finished with its haphazard descent.

He hasn’t had a relationship in ages, hasn’t even looked for one. Frankly, he’s been too numb, too defeated to even think about it. He hasn’t even really connected with anyone since the army; Stamford’s nice enough, a good friend, but compared to the bonds forged by bullets and shrapnel, it hasn’t been the same.

Sherlock, though.

He won’t think about how he felt in the client meeting just now, because that’s -- no. He hasn’t been attracted to anyone in a good long time. That’s not what this is. It can’t be.

A sleek black car pulls up to the kerb just past the nearest pedestrian crossing. The door opens, and a frankly gorgeous woman in a sleek black suit steps out.

“John Watson?” she says. “Get in.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my extremely patient betas, esterbrook & Maz, for bearing with me while I kept tweaking this chapter! 
> 
> Thanks also to everyone who posted comments last time -- in all seriousness, they kept me going.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr (& twitter) @ marsdaydream for updates. Or just to say hi. (Please do!)


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

The sleek car hums with silence during its short journey through the back streets of Battersea. Or maybe it’s Lambeth -- John doesn’t know the neighbourhood particularly well. The woman in black sits next to John, her perfect face lit by the blue light of her phone's screen. John asks her where they're going. He asks her name. He asks how she knows his name. She says nothing.

She doesn't even look up when the car finally stops, but then, at last, she does speak: "Get out, please."

So John does. He leaves his bag of milk and lettuce in the car. He feels oddly calm about it.

The room they've pulled into -- car and all -- seems to be some sort of giant hangar or industrial workspace. The echo of water dripping from the ceiling pings across the vast, damp floor. If a cartoon villain wanted to design a sinister lair, he might start with something like this -- it's only lacking a giant console blazing with dials and lights, and possibly a swiveling chair with a long-haired white cat.

John's been to war in Afghanistan, and even served on a few covert missions, but nothing this weird has ever happened to him. He can't remotely think of who he might have pissed off, unless his landlady has some bizarre connection to MI-6, and Ralph Fiennes is about to step out of the shadows and collect John's overdue rent. He'd almost think he was being mugged, except for the complimentary ride in the luxury car. Certainly he's about to be threatened. Is he being threatened? Who would want to extort anything from a failed author with an overdrawn bank account?

The silhouette of a tall man in a dark suit looms a few yards away. The man leans lazily on an umbrella, seemingly content to remain in place while John sizes him up.

John doesn't have the barest understanding of how to deal with this situation. He doesn't even know how to classify this as a situation. So he walks toward the man.

"Doctor Watson," the man says, as John approaches. He's pale, sour-faced, with an air of aristocracy apparent from a distance. Up close, his grey eyes are so sharp that John feels pinned to the spot and possibly x-rayed in the process.

"Yes," John says, feeling his chin lift in challenge. Something in him thrills to the steel in the man's gaze. It's probably a very unwise something.

"I have a few questions for you."

"We've got something in common, then."

The man's mouth twists, which only adds to the sourness of his expression. "You were offered several consultation sessions with Sherlock Holmes. One month later, his client list is barely half what it was, you're serving as his --" and here, the air quotes are nearly visible -- " _assistant_ , and you've moved into his flat. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John's stomach lurches, unsure if this all-seeing man is attempting a little levity, or somehow reading part of John's mind. The part that's recently decided John's feelings for Sherlock might need to be reclassified.

The man's eyes flick over him in a way that suggests he's registered every nuance of John's reaction.

"We got married on Tuesday," John says, not bothering to hide the bite of sarcasm in his tone. "Sorry, did we miss you on the invite list?"

The man's mouth tightens into a line. He pulls out a small notebook from his pocket and consults it. "I have a note here that you owe two months' rent to a Mrs Edith Presbury."

Christ. This is about the rent. Why this man cares about Sherlock is beyond John, unless he thinks --

"Sherlock did just hire me, yes. I'll pay you as soon as I've saved enough, I sent a note --"

"Your rent has been paid, Dr Watson. No need to concern yourself with such details any longer."

The man merely watches as John gapes.

"You're not here to collect rent," John says, after a moment.

"On the contrary. I'm here to make you an offer."

"What kind of offer?"

The man looks down his nose at him. "Do you plan on remaining at two-hundred-and-twenty-one-bee Baker Street?"

He draws out the address as if he's attempting to commit it to memory. John finds that very hard to believe.

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Everything is my business, Dr Watson."

John stops, licks his lips. Swallows. "Who are you?"

"Someone who's just paid your rent, and someone who's prepared to offer you a continued monthly payment, should you accept my offer."

"Why? What for?"

The man smiles. "Information."

"What information?"

"Sherlock Holmes is a very private man. In his entire life, he's never voluntarily opted to have a flatmate. I think this arrangement could be highly beneficial to both of us."

"You want me to -- to give you information. About Sherlock."

"Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with, of course."

John gives a grim smile. "Too late for that."

"I think you'll find the compensation to be quite worth your while."

It feels as if all the arteries and veins in John's face have constricted at once. His jaw tightens, and he tilts his head to one side. "Why?"

"I worry about Sherlock," the man says, and his pinched, pompous air betrays no genuine emotion, if this statement is true. "He's given me good reason to do so."

"He's fine," John says, ignoring his quickened pulse, "and that's all the information I'll ever be willing to give."

"I haven't given you a figure."

"No need."

The man raises his eyebrows and gives a surprised little chuckle. "I see." He studies John again. "Mike Stamford was right. You are quite stubborn. Ever the loyal soldier, aren't you, Dr Watson? Could it be that you've found yourself a new commanding officer?"

This statement hits so close that it’s like a bullet grazing John’s scalp. He flinches, praying the man won’t see, but knows the prayer is futile. Is this a not-so-veiled reference to John’s past, a past that, as far as John knows, never found its way into any official documents?

The liaison with Sholto had been just that: a liaison. Nothing lasting, nothing serious. John had seen it plenty of times in the army: friendship igniting in the heat of danger. He’d hardly been the only one in his unit to cross a line. And honestly -- how dare this man insinuate that John was looking for something like that with Sherlock, when he doesn’t even _know_ \--

John licks his lips, and belatedly, the words “Mike Stamford” filter into his brain.

“Mycroft Holmes,” John decides, with a faint trace of relief. Mystery solved: only one man would know about Mike Stamford setting John up to work with Sherlock. But -- _this_ is Mycroft Holmes? Christ. Mike never mentioned that Mycroft Holmes was the type to conduct a meeting via kidnapping someone with a luxury car. It seems a fairly glaring omission.

“I’d have thought that was apparent already,” Mycroft Holmes says, with a placid sort of impatience.

John’s mind spins, like tyres trying to gain purchase on the slick floor of this strange room. “I wasn’t expecting -- ” He gestures. “This.”

“When one is attempting to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one must take... certain precautions.”

“You could have called me. On my phone.”

Mycroft ignores this. “Tell me, Dr Watson --”

“John.”

“John,” Mycroft repeats, as if John’s just invited him to say a particularly vulgar curse.

Realisation continues to unfold slowly in John’s mind. “You just offered me money to spy on your _brother_.”

Mycroft looks down his nose at John. “How long have you known Sherlock Holmes?”

John pauses. He feels a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“I see,” Mycroft says. “And yet you’re willing to proclaim yourself an expert. Has it ever occurred to you that Sherlock Holmes may not be everything he claims to be?”

“He hasn’t _claimed_ ,” John says, feeling the words grit between his teeth, “to be anything.”

“I see. Well. Regardless, my offer still stands.” Mycroft’s smile flirts with menace before settling into something more polite. “You could be of great help, John.”

John finds he can’t look at Mycroft Holmes for another minute.

Sherlock is John’s _editor_. They argue about plot points and order food and watch crap telly. They’re not building bloody bombs in the basement. There’s no conceivable reason for Mycroft to seek John out and ask him to be some kind of bizarre double agent. Not to mention, there’s no reason for him to hint that John’s interest in Sherlock might be far more than professional, which is just -- well. _Jesus_.

John clasps his hands behind his back, the reassurance of parade rest. “Mr Holmes. I appreciate the gesture, but I’ll pay my own rent. I’ll tell Mrs Presbury to tear up your cheque.” He nods curtly. “If you talk to Mike, thank him for me. I’m grateful for the sessions with your brother.”

He swallows, pulse skipping.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson,” Mycroft says at last, as if he’s come to some sort of conclusion. What it might be, John has no idea. Mycroft takes a step back, then turns to walk away, giving his umbrella a single lazy twirl.

* * *

Raised voices echo in the stairwell as John opens the door to 221B, armed with a quart of lukewarm milk and some wilted lettuce. The car ride back to Baker Street was uneventful at best, even the perfect woman’s features losing their appeal after thirty minutes in traffic. Plenty of time for anxiety to knot John’s thoughts into a mess of uncertainty. He hurries up the stairs, Sherlock’s dark baritone saying something unintelligible as he reaches the landing.

“I sent her here for _help_ ,” a voice answers, rough with anger. “At the publishing house they told me you’re the best in the business.”

“They’re correct,” Sherlock snaps, as John opens the door to the sitting room.

The other speaker is a man in a grey suit with short salt-and-pepper hair. He turns abruptly as John enters the room. “Who’s this?”

“My assistant.”

The man scoffs. “You don’t have an assistant.”

John clears his throat. “Sherlock, what’s going on?”

Sherlock stops his pacing and gestures from John to the stranger. “Graham Lestrade, Molly Hooper’s agent. This is Dr John Watson.”

“It’s _Greg_ ,” the man says, his frustration barely contained. “Why do you need a bloody _doctor_?”

“I’m a writer, actually,” John says, surprised to hear the words even as he says them.

“I don’t have time for this.” Greg rakes a hand through his hair and looks accusingly at Sherlock, then turns to John, seemingly grateful for an audience. “Your editor here is supposed to be the very best. ‘Hire Sherlock Holmes, you’ll never regret it,’ they told me. ‘Miracle worker,’ they said. Well, he’s accomplished a miracle, all right. Here I have a bestselling author who can’t finish her bestselling series, and this genius tells her to go waste her time writing some bloody romance novel instead. It’s a miracle I haven’t _punched him_.”

Sherlock nearly growls in annoyance. “This is why I don’t deal with agents. You think writers can just press a button and produce an infinite amount of quality text. Of course Molly can write a sequel for you. Will it be shit, at this moment? Yes. Will it be shit after she’s spent time on her romance? No.”

Greg crosses his arms. “Let’s get one thing straight. We paid you through the fucking nose to make the next Mary Sutherland novel happen. You cannot do this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Despite what you may think, I’m not your trained police dog. I will not snap at Molly Hooper’s heels.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“I don’t need to explain my methods.”

“I don’t care if you explain them. You just need to get me a book as soon as bloody possible.”

“And I told you that would _happen_.”

John holds up a hand. “I -- sorry. Sorry, but -- what’s the rush? Sherlock’s the expert. If he says this is the way to go, I trust him.”

For a moment, Sherlock looks genuinely taken aback.

Greg doesn’t notice, and shakes his head. “Look, Doctor --”

“John.”

“Look, John. You must not know the _Hosmer Angel_ books, or you wouldn’t be asking that question.”

John feels a stab of guilt. “I, um. I’ve read a couple, but I haven’t caught up with the last two or three. I know they’re very popular --”

“Very popular doesn’t begin to cover it. The last _Hosmer Angel_ book came out five years ago, did you know that? And do you know what _happened_ in that book? Any idea at all?”

“He was busy writing his own series,” Sherlock interrupts.

It’s John’s turn to look surprised. Greg blinks.

“Five years ago,” John adds. “Yeah, um. I’d just finished it, five years ago.”

“Right.” Greg grimaces. “Well. Our nation’s hero, Hosmer Angel, jumped off a roof. Left his significant other thinking he’d committed suicide. The cliffhanger of all cliffhangers and Molly Hooper can’t seem to finish the job. Five years, and we haven’t seen a bloody draft. We haven’t even seen a fucking _sentence_. She’s in real danger of breaching her contract -- she’ll have to give back her advance if she doesn’t deliver something soon. This is not a brilliant time to take a break.”

John winces. “R-right. Okay --”

“And any idiot would see that a writer like Molly Hooper couldn’t even produce a shopping list under pressure that intense,” Sherlock shoots back. “Turn up the heat and she’ll continue to freeze. Five years should tell you that much, she’s ordinarily got a six-month turnaround. But you’re her _agent_ , George. You’re the expert, aren’t you?”

“It’s Greg,” John corrects quietly.

“ _Is_ it.”

Greg looks momentarily subdued. “You think -- you think the pressure’s getting to her.”

“Has already gotten to her, and will continue to get to her, yes, unless she can be thoroughly distracted from it. Redirected. Reminded that she can succeed without Hosmer Angel.”

“I still don’t think --”

“That’s clearly the _problem_.”

John clears his throat, holds up a hand again. “If I can, um. Sherlock. You think you’re on the right path with this.”

Sherlock glares at Greg. “I’m never wrong.”

Greg’s shoulders slump very slightly, as if some of the air’s gone out of him. “This romance -- God. Whatever the hell this is. You think it’ll help her.”

“ _Obviously_.”

Mingled fury and uncertainty battle in Greg’s expression. He bites his lip and sucks in a breath.

“You should trust him,” John says quietly.

Greg glances up at John and studies him for a moment. John is suddenly aware he’s angled himself between Greg and Sherlock.

“Yeah, all right,” Greg says at last, shaking his head. “All right.” He fixes Sherlock with a steely stare. “But you’d best come through on this, understand? This is not some bullshit therapy session we’re paying for.”

Sherlock’s features harden into a look John recognises as immediate trouble. “Right, good. Thanks,” John interrupts, before Sherlock can get a word in. He offers a hand to Greg. “We’ll be in touch.”

Greg looks at him again; John can see the shift, the split second in which he decides John’s not insane. He gives John’s hand a firm shake, then nods at Sherlock, still eyeing him suspiciously. “Yeah. We will.”

* * *

In Greg’s absence, the air in the flat has a charge in it, almost like the whiff of ozone after a lightning strike. John busies himself with tea as Sherlock settles down at his desk. Their desk. The sugar jar needs refilling; Sherlock takes sugar. John rifles through the cabinets until he finds the new bag of sugar he bought last week, now shoved behind a can of paint, three rolls of electrical tape, and a soldering iron. Clearly, tools no editor ever goes without.

The bag of sugar stubbornly refuses to open. Possibly it’s been sealed with some sort of super-engineered Satanic glue. John wrestles with it, but gives up when it his efforts threaten to send sugar flooding over the kitchen counter. He casts about for a knife and finds they’re all in the sink, coated with some sort of caramel-coloured, viscous substance. He’s suddenly very grateful for this goddamned bag of sugar and its ability to distract him from recent events he’s finding hard to process.

Sherlock’s voice drifts underneath John’s preoccupation with their lack of kitchen scissors. “You met my brother.”

John blinks and looks up. Sherlock’s watching him, open laptop forgotten.

“You -- how did you --”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John abandons the sugar bag. He’s fairly sure his jaw must be hanging open. “He did, actually.”

“Did you take it?”

John swallows. He’s just defended Sherlock in front of Molly Hooper’s furious agent; now Sherlock will know it wasn’t the first time John leaped to his defence today. If any dragons need slaying this evening, Sherlock will know who to call, apparently.

He flushes. “No.”

Sherlock doesn’t betray much reaction, to John’s great relief. Instead, he sighs. “Pity. We could have split the fee.”

John paces over to his armchair, leans on the back of it. “You know, you could’ve warned me. ‘Oh, by the way, my brother’s got some sort of supervillain complex, he might come by to kidnap you, hope you don’t mind.’”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Something’s bothering you.”

“Good. Very good. Well spotted, Sherlock. I went out for milk and came back thinking I’d been cast in a spy film without my knowledge.”

Sherlock smirks at this, but says nothing.

John straightens up. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain. Because I thought I was writing a book here, maybe typing up some notes for you. Certainly nothing that merits round-the-clock surveillance.”

“My brother is accustomed to a high level of power in his job. He therefore believes he should have an equally high level of power over my affairs.”

“But you’re -- an _editor_. If he runs the bloody government, why should he care about your affairs?”

“Why, indeed,” Sherlock says bitterly. “He does love to distract me whenever possible. It’s unfortunate that he had to involve you.” He gestures to John’s laptop, resting on the desk at John’s usual spot. “I believe you have more important things to do.”

John opens his mouth, then shuts it. This is precisely the kind of infuriating non-answer he’s come to expect from Sherlock, who’s adept at deflecting questions in favour of directing focus on the work. _Their_ work. John’s ceased to see it as his own, anymore: Sherlock is a part of it, twined into the fabric of the story in more ways than one. “But --”

“Do me a favour,” Sherlock cuts in, pushing John’s desk chair out with one foot. “Don’t let my brother distract you.”

John sighs, his feet propelling him toward the desk, accustomed by now to the inevitability of it all. “This is all just a little bit weird. You do know that.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow as John settles down across from him at the desk. “Says the man who’s turning _Peter Pan_ into a kidnapping caper.”

“Against my better judgement, I’ll have you know.”

Sherlock waves a hand. “Stories written with good judgement are dull. Thus far, yours is not.”

John opens his laptop. “I’m sure you meant that to be reassuring.”

Sherlock gives him a warm, impish grin. “I’m sure you meant to tell us what was in the dog kennel.”

John’s laptop chimes, flaring back to life; John’s heart chimes with it.

* * *

The empty glass lantern lacked a candle, and yet it glowed from within. It swung from Sherlock’s hand, the gold dust inside refracting light, turning it into warm, molten embers. One glass panel was cracked, a large chunk missing, the rest shattered like a spiderweb as if a tiny hand had punched with great force from the inside.

John suspected that was what had actually happened.

“They kept the fairy in here,” Sherlock began, but for once, John’s thoughts kept pace. “She tried to get out,” John interrupted. "Look."

Sherlock turned, coat flaring as he traced the faint pattern of golden dust on the floor. “It was chaotic. She nearly got out in the scuffle.”

John’s heart lept. “Did she escape?”

Sherlock shook his head, still studying the floor. “I don’t think so. I imagine they couldn’t have flown the ship back without her. It’s far too big.”

“So they re-captured her. And left the lantern behind.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock held up the lantern. “An oversight, perhaps. This is a fair amount of dust.”

A thought bobbed to the surface of John’s mind, a loud, obvious thought that asserted itself like an overly affectionate relative at a family gathering. He opened his mouth to say it, but found Sherlock staring at him. From the glint in Sherlock’s eyes, John could tell that the same loud, obvious thought had spelled itself out in Sherlock’s head.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said, a deep whisper. “Isn’t it a stroke of luck that we’re searching for kidnapped children, and the only means to get to them has been conveniently left behind?”

“You’re sure they’ve flown away.”

Sherlock gave him a look that was perfectly easy to read in the dim light.

“But you just said it was an oversight. The lantern.”

“You forget. This is a story, John. Coincidence is a fairy tale.” Sherlock grasped the top of the lantern, then twisted; the metal top came off easily in his hand. He arched an eyebrow. “I’d call this foreshadowing.”

“ _Deus ex machina_ ,” John corrected.

Sherlock hummed appreciatively, still studying the lantern. “Precisely.”

“So you think Moriarty did this. Set this up for you to find.”

“Mm. His fingerprints are all over this.”

“Metaphorically speaking?”

Sherlock thrust out the lantern for John to inspect. In the dim candlelight of the nursery, the distinct whorls of a man’s fingerprints were visible, smudged over the crazed glass of the lantern.

“Ah. His -- _actual_ fingerprints.” John’s brow furrowed. “You can recognise fingerprints?”

“No. But Moriarty is my creator. By definition, we have a... close relationship. I can tell when he’s had a hand in something. Even if he wasn’t the one who physically left this, his intent is there, the way it’s been handled. I know his... writing style. So to speak.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock dipped a long finger into the broken lantern, smudging it with gold dust. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, then started to brush it onto one shoulder, glittering gold mingling with coarse wool. Before he could stop himself, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, wrenching his hand away. The dust glinted as it drifted to the floor.

“No,” John said. “No, no. Nope. I can’t let you do this.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, incredulous. “It’s the only obvious solution.”

Sherlock’s wrist felt warm in the circle of John’s fingers. They both stared at it; John dropped it quickly. “You’ll be walking straight into a trap, Sherlock. Playing right into his hands. He’s there waiting for you, or someone is, some terrifying version of Captain Hook -- I mean, if Grandmother was bad with knitting needles, imagine what a man could do to you with an actual _hook_ for a hand.” John faltered. “He’s got guns. Swords. God knows what else. He’s a bloody _pirate_.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, and the corner of his mouth nearly betrayed him. Something lingered in that corner: a smile John found himself very much wanting to see.

Not good.

“You’re _enjoying_ this.” John swallowed down fear that was threatening to become panic. “Someone’s corrupted this story, kidnapped the children, orchestrated this twisted setup -- and you’re going to go along with it, you’re going to risk your life. You’re going to _enjoy_ it, even.”

“You don’t see.” Sherlock’s voice rose. “I don’t have a _choice_.”

“You could leave this story. Let me fix this. He won’t care about me.”

“And where do you propose I go? Every story I’ve visited since I’ve left my own has been corrupted. Moriarty will find me in the next one. He’ll corrupt the next story, he’ll corrupt _every_ story and set it against me until he gets what he wants. He aims to kill me, John.”

John’s words kept tumbling out despite the sinking feeling in his chest. “But there are millions of stories. An infinite number. Surely you could be safe _somewhere_.”

“Moriarty knows me, he knows how my mind works. He _created_ me -- he can guess where I’ll go, what I’ll do next. I can only solve his puzzles, try to fix what he’s broken. Try to stay one step ahead.” Sherlock gave a weak laugh. “He loves to watch me dance.”

“How is that any way to live?”

Sherlock’s smile tightened. “It’s the _only_ way to live.”

The night-light at John’s feet guttered, jolting the long shadows behind Sherlock. John looked away. The empty beds of the Darling children looked back at him.

“There’s got to be another way,” John muttered.

“I’ve yet to find it, and I was written to have an unparalleled capacity for problem-solving.” Sherlock gestured at the door, abruptly businesslike. “Which is why you should leave. You don’t want to get involved.”

“I am involved. I _have_ to be involved. You’re telling me some madman is corrupting stories, trying to murder a conscious character -- or whatever you are. I can’t let that happen.”

“I have been _handling it_ ,” Sherlock bit out.

“You were almost killed.”

“‘Almost’ is the operative word.”

They watched each other. It felt as if something momentous was about to be decided.

Perhaps it had already been decided. John had the sinking feeling it might have been decided the moment Sherlock Holmes walked through the door of his cottage.

John let out a long sigh, his heart hammering. “Well, I don’t like it, but I guess this is how it has to be.”

Sherlock straightened, nodded. “Good.”

“Right.”

For a moment it seemed as if nothing had been decided after all. Sherlock adjusted his coat with his free hand. John looked warily at the lantern in Sherlock’s other hand, at the dust still clinging to Sherlock’s shoulder. “When do we leave?” he ventured.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t coming.”

John crossed his arms. “Then you aren’t going.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh. He shook his head. “Fine.”

Their eyes met, again. Sherlock didn’t smile, but John detected a hint of satisfaction in the way his expression shifted. Or maybe it was just John’s imagination. John had a very active imagination.

His imagination reminded him of a small fact.

“Maybe --” John began. “Maybe we’ll find a way to get you out of this. Moriarty didn’t write _me_ , you know. He won’t be expecting two of us.”

The smile that had been hidden in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth -- the one John had very much wanted to see -- crept slowly across Sherlock’s face. “That’s true, isn’t it?” Sherlock said. “That’s very, very true.”

* * *

It felt as if a clean breeze had swept through the nursery, taking any of John’s remaining uncertainty with it. Perhaps it had; Sherlock had flung open the wide picture window. The hilly, uneven landscape of London rooftops gleamed at them beneath a blanket of inky sky.

They hadn’t done much to prepare, possibly because there wasn’t much they could do. John acquainted himself with the Darlings’ charming indoor plumbing, glancing at himself in the mirror to find that his three-piece brown suit identified him as some sort of butler. He cast about for anything in the loo that might help two people about to jump out a window, but came up empty-handed. When he walked back into the nursery, Sherlock looked up expectantly from his study of the dust-filled glass lantern. “I imagine there should be more than enough fairy dust to make the trip,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware there’s a science to fairy dust.”

Sherlock smirked. “It’s rather the opposite.”

John attempted to calm his pulse, which had decided to race again. “What about a return trip?”

“Hopefully we’ll reunite with the source.”

John swallowed. “If she’s all right.”

“Well. Yes.”

Sherlock set the broken lantern on a bedside table, then carefully dipped a finger into it once more. He began to brush the dust over his shoulders, his hand messy with gold. He glanced back at John. “Come on, then.”

“Do you know how to use this?”

Sherlock shrugged. “As well as you do.”

“Ah. Brilliant.”

“Stop stalling.”

John stepped forward to examine the lantern. His hand was far smaller than Sherlock’s, and when he pulled it out, several fingers glittered with gold. They tingled just a bit, as if he’d dipped them into a warm bath. He smudged the gold over both shoulders of his dark dress coat. Nothing happened.

“More,” Sherlock decided, and went for the lantern again. In a moment John was sputtering as dust tickled his scalp and crept down the back of his neck; Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his own hair, leaving it a mess of glitter and wild curls.

“Bloody hell --” John began, and sneezed.

Sherlock shoved the lantern into one of his deeper coat pockets. He held out his arms cautiously, then jumped where he stood. Gravity stubbornly kept his jump within normal limits.

“Try the bed,” John offered, when subsequent attempts were equally unsuccessful.

“We’re adults, not children,” Sherlock said, scrambling up from the floor and brushing off his knees. “Maybe the dust doesn’t work on us.”

“Hook used it.”

“He used it on a pirate ship, not a human. Maybe the same rules don’t apply --”

“ _Oh_.” John’s mind scrambled over old text. “Sherlock. _Think_.”

Sherlock gave him a withering look.

“Think -- lovely thoughts,” John finished lamely.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to deliver a scathing insult, but then his expression transformed. “ _Oh_ ,” he echoed. “John. That’s _it_.”

He closed his eyes, arranging his face in the facsimile of a pleasant smile. John watched as Sherlock decidedly failed to leave the ground.

“Try not to look as if you’re about to undergo surgery.”

 Sherlock let out an irritated breath, eyes still closed. His mouth lifted at the corners. It looked as if he were preparing to greet guests at a party, but possibly under threat.

“What on earth are you thinking of? It doesn’t seem too lovely.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He looked down at his feet, which remained firmly planted on the nursery carpet. Tiny flecks of gold had sifted onto his shoes. “This is _pointless_.”

“You’re just not thinking the right thoughts.”

“You’re telling me I’m not _thinking correctly?_ ”

John raised his eyebrows. “Yes, actually.”

“Lovely thoughts are hateful,” Sherlock growled. “I’ve no reason to think about flowers or skipping through a garden, it makes my brain want to rot out through my ears.”

John managed to cover his laugh with a cough. “Right. I think they should be lovely thoughts -- for you. Whatever makes you happy. Your, um. Your favourite things.”

“I don’t have ‘favourite things.’”

John sighed. “Yes, you do. Look, you’re a detective, you like -- crimes, right?”

“I suppose.”

Sherlock hadn’t shut him down entirely; this was promising. “Murder?”

Sherlock’s left foot twitched, and then lifted off the ground of its own accord. Sherlock looked down in shock and his foot promptly hit the floor again.

“Beheadings,” Sherlock muttered. “Disembowlings. Suspicious suicides.”

This time Sherlock nearly lost his balance as his feet bobbed up, lifting him a good metre into the air before dropping him to the ground.

John couldn’t hide his chuckle this time. “Three suspicious suicides. Wait, no -- four. In a locked room.”

“With a note,” Sherlock crowed, and without warning, shot straight up. “Oh, it’s _Christmas!_ ”

Sherlock nearly careened headfirst into the ceiling. He ducked, put his hands up, and stutter-skipped against it, pushing off the flat surface and wheeling in a circle, slender limbs spread wide like a starfish. He swore vehemently, plummeted a few feet, and then kicked as if swimming in weightless liquid. This seemed to stabilise him, and he spun again to look down at John, who was nearly breathless with his efforts not to laugh.

“Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock began, only to have his words waver into a rumble of laughter. John grinned up at him, and that did it: the two of them broke into giggles. Sherlock hung in the air laughing helplessly, a clear, soul-deep sound that resonated in the warm cocoon of the nursery.

John mopped at his eyes, trying to catch his breath, when he felt the room tilt around him. His stomach flipped over, as if he’d left it on the street below, and then his legs kicked only at air. He bobbed like a cork in water as the room spun on its axis, then righted itself.

“Look out!” Sherlock said, from somewhere near his shoulder, and John ducked just before colliding with the ceiling lamp.

“Christ. How do you --”

“I don’t know. I’m not thinking about it.” Sherlock, an impossibly quick study, was already much steadier in the air. His dark coat framed his form, flaring like a cape as he moved, and he executed a quick little turn around the light fixture. “Ready?”

“Hang on, let me just get settled.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Sherlock. I don’t know how to bloody _land_ yet.”

“Like this.” Sherlock dove down to the mantelpiece and dropped lightly onto it.

“Show-off.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Let’s see you land by the window.”

Feeling like a prize idiot, John waved his arms, which didn’t do much. He tried kicking, which propelled him backwards. Sherlock pushed off from the mantelpiece, circled the ceiling once more, and landed neatly on the window seat. John tried to think of the best way to instruct Sherlock not to be an arse, when he suddenly found himself hovering above the seat next to him. “Oh,” John said in surprise, and dropped down on the window seat. His bad leg buckled underneath him, and he swayed, then sat down hard.

“Okay?”

“Fine.” John’s heart racketed around in his chest. “Good. You?”

“Your leg bothers you.”

“Only once in a while.”

Sherlock looked out at the London skyline, at the deep blue of the sky, scattered clouds hanging low over rooftops, at the distant stars winking at them. John followed his gaze, past thick, purple smoke that curled out of chimneys, past the yellow glow of gas lamps behind closed curtains. His heart surged with something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Another world, ages ago, one he’d built himself: each tree placed to frame a scene, every stone wall, every curl of barbed wire. The eve of his planned battle, all of it choreographed, bullets poised within guns just awaiting their cue. And James, face smudged with dirt, grinning recklessly as he stepped into place in the trenches.

John’s stomach gave a sudden lurch. Sweat prickled on the back of his neck.

“John.”

John blinked. Sherlock was watching him, brows furrowed.

“It’s fine,” John said quickly. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned his. “Don’t think so much,” he said, at last.

Don’t think so much. There were a lot of things not to think about. Missing children. Ruined stories. Lost worlds. Just trifling matters, really.

And then there was the whole of the inky sky over London, and a madman next to him who needed him to jump.

“You’re telling me I’m not thinking correctly?” John countered.

Sherlock barely lifted one eyebrow. “Maybe.”

John couldn’t help a small smile. “I see.”

“You’re just not thinking about the right things,” Sherlock said, looking back out at the glowing sky. “If we fly out of that window, hover over the city -- if we could take the roof off of every house and look inside -- we could find stories no one’s heard before. An infinite number of narratives. I want to be free to see all of it.”

The noise of voices echoed from below, the sound of boots hurrying along cobblestone streets some distance away.

“The parents.” Sherlock cast a quick look around the nursery as if expecting them to materialise. “We need to leave. If we meet them it will derail things further.”

John nodded. He stood up, straightened the coat that wasn’t really his, and looked out the window again. They were, quite definitively, four floors up. The narrow street yawned below them, streetlamps piercing it like the points of arrows. John swallowed.

“Come _on_ , John!”

And with that, Sherlock bent his knees, spread his arms, and vaulted out into the night.

* * *

The first hit of cold air took John’s breath away, and for a split second he felt the gaping drop of empty space below him. Wind whipped between his fingers as he dipped down, then coasted up over the first crest of rooftops, and he was _flying_.

He faltered at first, swearing under his breath, but quickly began to level out. Sherlock looked back, grinning broadly, and looped easily around a chimney in their path. John gritted his teeth and followed, managing a loop that nearly sent him through a plume of chimney smoke. Sherlock dropped his hands to his sides and shot forward, and John did the same, accelerating up through a cloud, chasing the tails of Sherlock’s coat.

The streets of London glittered like the caps and crests of ocean waves: pubs and houses, church spires, the blurry tops of trees. It was _wonderful_. John had lived here once before, long ago. The city fanned out like an old friend, the spangled web of buildings not so different from the London he’d known. But the memory swept past him like the clouds scudding low across the sky, and he could think of nothing but wind and lights and stars. He had always wanted to do this, in the way every child hopes for it before they learn that Peter only visits in books. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. This was better. Better than _anything_.

Sherlock caught an updraft and soared higher, coat billowing behind him like the wings of an enormous, dark bird. A green space opened beneath them, and John began to recognise landmarks: Kensington Gardens, the Serpentine shimmering in the dark. Knightsbridge, Belgravia, the unmistakable knot of roads at Buckingham Palace. The shining cross of Westminster Abbey, the countless delicate spires of the Houses of Parliament looming closer as they approached the Thames.

Sherlock corrected his course and dropped lower, banking around to circle toward Westminster Bridge, utterly empty of carriages and people at this hour. “What are you --” John yelled, but it was useless, his words disappearing in a rush of air. He could only follow as Sherlock sped lower still, nearly street-level, past the statue at the foot of the bridge, and then straight up again, up the side of a familiar tower, the closest clock face glowing like a full moon, closer and closer until every flower of lattice on the clock face bloomed in front of them, and what if they couldn’t _stop_ , what if --

Sherlock dropped onto one of Big Ben’s enormous minute hands, which shuddered, creaked, and held fast. John dropped down next to him, the minute hand groaning in protest, steadfastly indicating that it was a quarter past the hour.

Sherlock’s eyes shone with exhilaration, his pale cheeks pink with cold. For a moment they could only gasp for breath, half-laughing, wobbling on the slender minute hand and leaning on the clock’s bright face.

At last, Sherlock straightened, looking around at their impossible position, at the gold filigree and slim numerals and translucent glass. He glanced at John with a wry grin. “Well. Welcome to London.”

The minute hand ticked downward, and they grabbed for each other, John’s hand fast on the arm of Sherlock’s rough wool coat. His heart threatened to pound straight through three layers of turn-of-the-century formalwear. “ _Jesus_ , Sherlock.”

The minute hand creaked.

“Why --” John’s breath still evaded him. “What are we doing up here?”

“Killing time.”

“I can bloody well see that!”

“Killing time,” Sherlock continued, “and making sure you could land. Which you can.”

“Sherlock.” John’s head swam. “You took me to the top of Big Ben to see if I could land.”

“I would’ve caught you, if you’d fallen.”

“You would’ve caught me. With your _years of flying experience_.”

“Of course.”

“You’re a _cock_.”

Sherlock just chuckled, a self-satisfied rumble.

John exhaled, knees feeling like jelly. “I’m beginning to see why someone might want to kill you.”

“It’s a popular pastime.”

They fell silent as the giant minute hand inched fractionally downward. Faintly, from behind the glass, they could hear the great clock’s mechanism ticking the seconds. John wondered how many people had heard Big Ben tick from the outside.

“We should go,” John said quietly. “It won’t be a quarter past for much longer.”

“Second to the right,” Sherlock murmured.

John looked out at the city, flecks of light fading into a wash of stars. The city winked back at him. The stars did, too.

“Think of murder,” John reminded him.

Sherlock nodded, flipping up his coat collar. He leaned out from the clock face, then dropped like a stone. John’s heart stopped until Sherlock swooped up again, disappearing toward the river.

It wasn’t until John was falling through the sky that he remembered what he’d been thinking when he’d first lifted off in the nursery. It wasn’t so much a thought as a sound: the dark, warm tone of Sherlock’s laughter, free and genuine, mingling with John’s.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful art inspired by this chapter by khorazir, [here](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/140582701003/flying-inspired-by-the-amazing-novel-by)!
> 
> * * *  
> This is your Captain speaking... 
> 
> Thanks to my betas, esterbrook & Maz, who went above and beyond this month to read through an extra-long chapter during a busy time of year. (Kudos to EB for her professional writerly knowledge, which came in handy this time!)
> 
> Also: You've probably figured out that I love canon references, and as always, there are plenty in this fic. If you think you see a canon reference, you probably did. I'm always happy to confirm these sightings via the comment section. (And in general I adore and appreciate your comments!)
> 
> A farewell bear fact for you detail-oriented readers: I know Big Ben is technically the name of the bell, not the clock, but Wikipedia states that Big Ben has now colloquially come to refer to both the bell and its surrounding clock tower.
> 
> You can find me as always @ marsdaydream on both tumblr and Twitter.
> 
> Thank yourselves for being onboard today on board!


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

London faded, gleaming through patches of cloud until a thick fog blotted it out of sight. Above the clouds, the open sky glowed a deep navy. The tips of John’s fingers, spread wide in flight, tingled and stung. He brought one hand to his mouth to blow on it, then the other, wobbling slightly but managing to speed forward nonetheless. Toward what, he wasn’t sure, but intuition informed him -- quite firmly -- that their flight path was correct.

Sherlock, half an arm’s-length ahead, glanced back at him. “Don’t you have any gloves?”

John couldn’t help an eye-roll. “Hang on, let me check my carry-on luggage.”

“Not in your pockets?”

“I’m fine.”

Sherlock’s look clearly said he didn’t believe John. His own gloved hands, huge and long-fingered, cupped the wind as he caught an updraft, and he shot ahead by another arm’s length. His adaptability and sheer intelligence took John’s breath away; they’d only been at it a short time and already Sherlock flew if he’d been born half a mile above the planet.

It should have been maddening, but somehow it wasn’t. John wondered what sort of man could possibly think of killing such a creation. Sherlock was brilliant and scathing, far too capable, and yet -- _appealing_. Tremendously so. At least to John, anyway. If John had written someone like Sherlock -- Christ. He’d never stop writing.

“I imagine it will be a while longer,” Sherlock said, voice raised against the wind.

* * *

_“I don’t know --”_

_“Probably,”_

_“I think so,” John_

Backspace. Delete. _Damn it._

What did he just write?

_If John had written someone like Sherlock -- Christ. He’d never stop writing._

Oh God. God, too much? It could be too much. Was it too much?

John scrolls up. No, damn it, he shouldn’t go back, Sherlock is adamant about not going too far back. He reviews the previous few paragraphs. Adjectives wink at him from the text: _Brilliant. Scathing. Capable. Appealing._

The flat’s empty now -- Sherlock’s out doing some sort of research for his latest client -- but John’s cheeks burn nonetheless.

He’s not falling for his roommate. He’s not.

In no way is this really what he thinks of Sherlock. This isn’t his own point of view. This is John Watson, Storyteller. It’s what Storyteller John thinks of Character Sherlock. John’s just been imagining from another point of view, and --

Well, he’s involved in the story, that’s all. Invested in these characters. And if he happens to go a bit overboard, Sherlock will understand. Hell, Sherlock himself will take care of it. John has done nothing but watch Sherlock’s process since moving in, and he’s completely sure he’s never met a finer editor in his life.

Mycroft Holmes’ precise diction echoes in his head: _Could it be that you've found yourself a new commanding officer? Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?_

 _He’s been reading my story,_ John thinks, and a fresh flush of embarrassment creeps up his neck.

The fire pops at his elbow. A log shifts, throwing a brief orange flare across the screen of his laptop as his phone buzzes.

_Lab assistant refused to let me use the microscope. Informed her of her husband’s affair. Researching bacteria now. Home late. SH_

A glow not unlike the warm fire spreads through John, and he can’t help a small grin. Sherlock is brilliant, scathing, capable, all of those things. Worthy of each and every description in John’s ridiculous narrative.

But all the same, maybe John should try to tone things down. Because he’s not falling for his roommate. He’s really not.

He rakes a hand through his hair, drags the cursor across two broken paragraphs, and stabs at the delete key. Descriptions vanish, incriminating evidence erased. He’ll just tell the story. No embellishments, from now on. Just a simple story. It’s all fine.

_His own gloved hands, huge and long-fingered, cupped the wind as he caught an updraft, and he shot ahead by another arm’s length._

_“I imagine it will be a while longer,” Sherlock said, voice raised against the wind._

* * *

“I imagine so, yeah,” John said, trying to sound marginally knowledgeable. Fairy-dust-fuelled flights didn’t tend to be his area of expertise.

They lapsed into silence. The sky began to turn pink at the edges, the vast horizon lit with rose, then gold. Grey clouds slipped beneath them like cotton balls, and below that, only ocean. Which ocean, John had no idea, but Neverland was an island, so certainly a vast sea was a promising, although unhelpful, landmark.

Neverland. John was going to see Neverland. He tried to squelch the part of his brain that was hopping around like a six-year-old. This was serious: this beloved story, John’s favourite in the world, could sustain irrevocable damage. They were up against odds so bizarre and unpredictable that John couldn’t begin to wrap his head around them. At any moment the world, this story, could coil around them and strike. The man flying next to him could wink out of existence, never to be re-imagined.

John swallowed. He’d readily admit that Sherlock was fascinating, but he would not get attached this time -- he’d learned his lesson. No, this was all a brilliant diversion. Just a temporary flight of fancy, no pun intended. John would get Sherlock to safety somehow, have a word with Moriarty, see if Moriarty could be persuaded to keep Sherlock alive. Maybe some sort of arrangement could be made. This was about saving old stories, and saving a worthy character. A little excitement, a change in routine -- all of those were welcome side effects. But, once their mission was accomplished, John would be on his way.

Sherlock, spread-eagled, began to push his arms against the air to slow his flight. He glanced over his shoulder at John. “I think we’ve found it.”

The sea below glittered in an endless sheet of sameness. John squinted at it. “How can you tell?”

Sherlock gave an impatient huff. “You don’t see?”

“I’m not a bloody detective --” John began, but his words faded as his eyes followed Sherlock’s outstretched finger, which pointed to something glinting in the rising sun.

A single golden arrow hovered ahead in the nearest cloud. As John watched, a second arrow popped up some distance away, and then a third. Of _course_. John’s inner six-year-old took the piss out of him for forgetting such an important detail. He bit his lip in chagrin.“Oh.”

“There’s something down there. I can see it. Look.”

John pulled up alongside Sherlock, then looked down. Far below them, a shape loomed in the water, a dark pupil in the blue iris of the sea. Clouds clustered around its peak, huddling like children awaiting a bedtime story.

“He’ll be expecting us,” Sherlock said, moving his arms easily against the wind’s current, as if he were treading water.

“You,” John reminded him. “He’ll be expecting you.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock shot ahead, chasing the arrows as they popped up like sparks from a fire far below them. John felt a jolt of panic. He kicked the air awkwardly, diving forward to catch up with Sherlock’s billowing coat.

“Wait, damn it! Christ, you can’t just --”

It proved impossible to fly and shout at the same time. John concentrated his available energy into giving chase, and grabbed a handful of rough tweed at Sherlock’s waist just as they reached the fourth arrow. They both dropped abruptly, then tumbled, momentum sending them head over heels until Sherlock at last righted both of them. When the clouds stopped spinning, John became aware of Sherlock’s gloved hand gripping his lapel.

“We need a plan,” John bit out, breathless. “You can’t just hare off like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, the wind tossing his fringe in all directions. “We have no way of knowing what Moriarty’s done until we get there.”

“So we’re just going to -- what, lay siege to the island? With our vast arsenal of weaponry?”

A flicker of acknowledgement broke through Sherlock’s scowl. “What are you proposing?”

“I’m not proposing anything. I’m suggesting we communicate.”

Sherlock sighed, clearly unaccustomed to the idea. “Given what I know of Moriarty’s behaviour, he’s probably assumed control of the villain. Of course, sometimes he simply sets the environment against me: earthquakes, fires, floods. He despises predictability. But that tends to destroy an entire story, and he prefers not to attract any attention. It causes far less bother when a villain merely goes after a new victim.”

“So you think we’re dealing with Hook.”

“No. I think we’re dealing with Moriarty. Hook won’t remember a thing.” Sherlock looked grim.“It’s likely the victims are being held on the pirate ship. No choice but to go there first. Obvious.”

A gust of wind shifted their position, and their shoulders brushed as they bobbed in midair. Sherlock let go of John’s lapel.

“So we just --” John stammered. “Go down there. And Moriarty probably has guns, and cannons, and pirates, and we just -- hope we can set the children free.”

Sherlock’s eyes blazed, and he couldn’t seem to stop the grin that tilted the corner of his mouth. This was certain death, really, or at the very least, unbelievably poor odds. And Sherlock looked... exhilarated. Almost appallingly so.

“Well, we could stop for tea first,” he said.

John couldn’t help grinning back.

* * *

Everyone has their own Neverland, or so John was reminded as the island loomed below them. They could make out terrain now: deep green-black forests, craggy hills carved by silver rivers, lagoons where the sea faded to a shallow turquoise. Each mountain peak, each bristly treeline, every whimsical dip and curve of the coastline was familiar. But even so, this was not his Neverland.

John’s own Neverland -- he remembered, now, as they descended through a veil of cloud -- was brighter in colour, with deciduous forests and even a bit of snow on the hills. He had his own fort, of course, not far from Hangman’s Tree, near the swimming hole and a friendly wolf pack’s lair. The Neverland below him was not that place. As they dipped down toward the forest nearest Pirate’s Cove, this island forced its trees up toward them, evergreen boughs reaching out like spiny limbs, dark with sap. Everything was very quiet.

This was all wrong, of course. Neverland should not be quiet. Neverland was raucous at all times with birdsong, wild animal calls, shrieks of laughter, pirate shanties, war whoops. There could only be one explanation.

John tugged at Sherlock’s elbow as they skimmed silently above the treetops. “Peter’s not here.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’d gathered.”

“Do you think he’s --”

“No way of knowing. But he’s incapacitated, at the very least.”

John’s heart kicked in his chest and they flew on in silence, gliding over forest as it tangled into jungle. Ahead, they could see the deep blue of Pirate’s Cove and the giant ship moored just offshore, flags whipping from the masts.

He’d been trying to ignore it, but since they’d descended, the island -- the narrative of the island, rather -- had been pulling at John. It was the first time he’d felt something like it in a very long while. He shoved the feeling far down, determined to ignore it. This wasn’t his story, not at all. But perhaps since it was so familiar, it called to him all the same, an itch building in his fingers. He could feel the pulse of the landscape, the ebb and flow of its colours. It would be so easy to push at it, to add a word here and there. To shape it back into the place of John’s childhood: his own Neverland. It wouldn’t be so hard, would it? He could fix it, put it all to rights, save Sherlock. And Peter.

His pen slipped into his pocket, heavy and solid despite the thick tweed of his coat.

God, no. No, he could never. For one thing, this world wasn’t his. It was huge, complex, a thousand threads to weave: birds and fish and fairies and pirates and crocodiles. And it was far, far too precious a thing. John couldn’t even keep his own stories alive -- how could he expect to resuscitate a place as beloved as this one? No. It was out of the question.

His previously smooth flight stuttered, and without warning, he dropped out of the air at the edge of the cove. He fell at least ten feet, stomach in his throat, and finally kicked hard enough to bob back up again, but not before Sherlock had swooped down and grabbed him by his coat collar. Saying nothing, he merely hung on to John’s heavy coat, breathing hard. They floated in place, unsteady with the force of their mingled breath.

Gravity pulled at John’s shoes, but he continued to wobble in the air. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Sherlock’s grip was iron. He hauled John up until they were at eye level. “Hold onto me. We’ll touch down here.”

“Is there some sort of time limit on the dust?”

“Yes, you have seven more minutes.”

John gaped at Sherlock. “Seriously?”

Sherlock managed a faint eyeroll. “I have no idea. But we’d best land, if you’re going to fall.”

“I don’t know. I think I can stay up. I don’t know what happened.”

Sherlock manoeuvred John’s arm over his shoulder, much as if he were lugging John home from the pub at closing time, and ignored this. “Come _on_ , John.”

Pirate’s Cove cut a wide half-moon in the tangle of jungle, dense trees giving way to an expanse of sand and clear water. Slowly, they descended toward the spot with the most cover, a shadowed cluster of rock where Kidd’s Creek emptied out into the bay. They landed without much fanfare, sticks and leaves crackling under their feet. The uneven ground felt odd under John’s stiff, high-button boots after such a long time in the air, and he leaned against a large stone to orient himself.

Sherlock, however, needed no such orientation. Without pause, he crept swiftly to the edge of the water, stooping to examine the ground, then turned and paced the other direction, bending low every few feet. John knew Sherlock well enough now to find this utterly normal. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the story’s insistent pull. _A small rowboat, moored in the sand. Just a rowboat._ It wouldn’t be much of a change. They could use it to board the ship, tie it up again, and no one would be the wiser.

This was how it always started, of course. A tiny idea, innocuous, one that didn’t seem much harm to pursue. Then before long John would be writing about sand and violence and bombs going off, he’d lose control of the narrative, he’d stall the story forever and leave it to die. Or worse, he’d destroy it himself. It had happened before. It could certainly happen again. It was too much of a risk to take.

He heard Sherlock stop in front of him, and he opened his eyes.

“You’re thinking about writing,” Sherlock informed him, brushing sand from his coat.

“I’m not.”

“You’re thinking about it.” Sherlock nodded at John’s hands. “Whenever you think about it, you clench your left hand. Your writing hand.”

John’s stomach turned over, flight-induced vertigo returning. He drew in a shaky breath. “I’m not going to write anything. I told you. I’m done writing.”

“I didn’t ask you to. It doesn’t matter.”

“Fine. Good.”

Sherlock barely acknowledged this, instead gesturing at the ship. “He’s laid a trap, and they’re waiting. Ordinarily, the pirates would be out and about. The tracks in the sand show regular activity from the ship to the shore: men, animals, birds. But nothing at all in the past day.”

“So what do we do?”

Sherlock gazed up at the Jolly Roger, its skull-and-crossbones flag waving, a dark slash against the blue sky. “I give him what he wants. I go in.”

John stared. “You -- no. No, you can’t --”

“He knows my thought process, John. He knows I’ll come to the ship. I can hardly surprise him.”

“But --”

“But _you_ can surprise him.”

Understanding broke over John: Sherlock couldn’t hide, but John, an unknown, might pass unnoticed. Hopefully Moriarty didn’t yet know Sherlock wasn’t alone.

“Okay.” John stood up, straightened his coat. He had a feeling that a brown tweed suit was not the most functional outfit for creeping onto a pirate ship, but that couldn’t be helped. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “Ready?”

“How will I -- I mean. What should I --”

“Wait twenty minutes. Give me time. Then come.”

* * *

“Where did I put the lantern?”

“What lantern?”

“With the fairy dust.”

“Oh. Christ, um. I think it’s still with you. In your pocket.” John rubs his eyes, and for a moment, his vision goes blurry. He’s been staring at a screen for far too long. “Why is it important right now?”

“It’s not.”

“Then why --”

“Just making sure you didn’t forget about it.”

John sighs and leans back in his chair. “The fictional fairy dust is in your fictional coat pocket, where I haven’t forgotten about it, although right now it’s not particularly relevant to the narrative.”

“Good.”

John stretches. His bad shoulder makes an unfortunate sound, and he winces. “I hate transitions. I don’t want to set up that ship situation.”

Sherlock looks up from his laptop. “I can tell.”

John raises an eyebrow. “How, is there some special way I’m typing? A particular crease on my shirtsleeve?”

Sherlock smirks. “Close. It’s the way you look up at the doorway every few minutes. Which says you’re either ready to leave, or you desperately need someone to walk through it and save you from having to write.”

John sighs. “You’re a dick, you do know that.”

“I’ve been informed, yes.”

As if on cue, their buzzer rings, and they stare at each other in mild surprise.

John checks his watch. “It’s late. Were you expecting someone?”

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, looks both pleased and intrigued. “No.”

John can read Sherlock’s expressions remarkably well now. “But you know who it is.”

“Listen. Don’t you?”

They pause at the sound of muffled footsteps in the stairwell. Sherlock catches John’s eye; he looks maddeningly smug. “John. I think we need... milk.”

The feeling of being seventeen steps behind Sherlock is fairly commonplace, but John feels his eyebrows crawl upward nonetheless. “At nine-thirty at night?”

A sharp glance. “Yes. Go.”

This is not normal, but there is no true normal in Baker Street. John shuts his laptop obediently, mentally scrolling through their list of clients: who could possibly want to see them this late on a Saturday night? It’s the weekend, for God’s sake, and moreover, Sherlock’s clients aren’t really in the practise of dropping by for casual visits. They all communicate via John now, who has somehow found himself in charge of Sherlock’s overflowing inbox. Client-free hours are usually spent discussing John’s story, or to be more precise, ordering curry, carrying out increasingly strange Google searches, and brainstorming plot twists well past midnight.

In short, it’s John’s favourite time of the week.

He tries to tamp down a swell of rising disappointment. “Shouldn’t I be here for notes, then?”

“No.”

The disappointment lodges high in John’s throat. He stands up. “Oh, er. Okay.”

Just as he stands, the footsteps approach, and a timid knock sounds from the landing.

“Come in, Molly,” Sherlock commands, deep-voiced and cool. He shifts in his chair, steepling his fingers as Molly Hooper’s pale face pops out from next to the doorway.

“Oh,” John says again, as a veritable cornucopia of emotions assail his brain. It’s much like having hecklers throw very small rocks inside his head. “Um, hi, Molly.”

“John was just leaving,” Sherlock supplies, as Molly steps into the room. At the sight of her, John’s jaw comes quite close to hitting the floor.

Gone is the schoolteacher-meets-cat-lady attire. Instead, Molly’s wearing a black cocktail dress that hugs her previously unseen curves, a fitted black wool coat, and glossy, cherry-red heels. John swallows, trying to school his shock into something more socially acceptable. Molly begins to shrug off her coat, revealing even more creamy skin, and stands uncertainly for a moment before John remembers he should probably step forward to take it.

Sherlock doesn’t miss a beat. His voice drops into a warm lower register that does very strange things to John’s insides. “This is an unexpected pleasure. You look lovely.”

Molly’s cheeks turn nearly the shade of their scarlet rug. “Oh, sorry -- I’m supposed to be at a party later.”

“I’m sure you can be a bit late. Please, sit down.” Sherlock gestures toward John’s desk chair.

The warring emotions in John’s head drown out Molly’s response. He grabs his own coat from the back of the door. “I’ll see you later, I’m, uh --”

“Going to the store,” Sherlock finishes, just as John blurts, “-- off to the pub.”

Molly blinks in confusion, settling into John’s desk chair next to Sherlock. She looks both terrified and relieved. “Oh. See you later, then.”

* * *

Outside it’s chilly, even for an early fall night, and Baker Street buzzes with people and cars and buses. John joins a herd of people waiting to cross the street and lets himself be carried along in the throng of Saturday night activity. It’s easier to let London do the thinking for him. He crosses Marylebone Road, listening to idle chatter and the rumble of buses and cabs, and hustles vaguely in the direction of Oxford Street. It takes six or seven blocks before the explosion in his thoughts has settled into a calmer sort of debris, and he ducks into the nearest pub for warmth.

The first floor of the pub has a roaring fire and an empty seat, which is about all John needs, apart from a full pint. Thankfully, the latter is fairly easy to come by, and the rest of the pub’s patrons -- young office types, a few older locals -- ignore him as he settles down with it.

Sherlock’s never kicked him out of a meeting before. Dozens of clients have come through their door, but John’s been there for every one of them. Sherlock even has a standard line for those clients who hesitate to talk in front of John: _anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of him._

John doesn’t want to think about what this means, that Sherlock asked him to leave. Sherlock is remarkable at tempering his approach to each individual writer, but usually that means a shift in his tone of voice, a different way of asking questions, a subtle balance of criticism and praise. It’s never meant -- whatever might happen behind a closed door.

But there’s nothing Sherlock loves more than cracking the puzzle of a client, and John’s never stopped to think about how far he might go to solve a given puzzle. What if a client needs -- a certain kind of attention, to produce a book? Christ. Would Sherlock go that far?

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter to him, he’s Sherlock’s assistant, that’s all. What did Sherlock say, when they first started working together? _Whatever it takes._ And John’s seen every possible example of that since moving into Baker Street. Sherlock, scouring the web at three in the morning, fact-checking historical fiction. Setting up experiments to reproduce the techniques used in a nineteenth-century laboratory. Memorising train schedules. Wading through the muck on the banks of the Thames just to take photos of the tide at different times of day. All of it for clients.

John sips his pint and stares into the fire. He wonders how long he should stay away, and then quickly realises he can’t think about that either. Visions of what he might encounter if he comes home too soon are not helpful.

Because the next logical stop on this train of thought is the fact that someday, Sherlock might need privacy more frequently. Certainly he -- dates people. Has relationships. Doesn’t he? Even though he’s never mentioned anyone in the time John has known him, he has to... date. He’s a young-ish human being, he probably has... needs. And he is, quite frankly, stunning to look at.

Granted, the image of Sherlock chatting up a woman at a bar is hard to envision, but --

Or a man. Somehow, that seems just as likely. More likely. God, he _has_ to stop thinking about this.

Bottom line is, no matter how John feels, he has to handle it. He _will_ handle it. His life has rocketed up the chart from dismal to pretty damn good, and it’s all due to Sherlock. John’s got a job now, he’s writing again, he’s living in a flat that feels closer to home than any place he’s ever lived. And Sherlock may be insane, but he’s also a friend. John’s best friend, if he has to put a name on it. If John has to walk out and close the door on a thousand clients, he’ll do it. Sherlock needs him, and God knows he’s lived through far worse. An actual war, for one thing.

His old flat seems as distant as the war itself, but if he thinks about it, it’s like he could still walk inside: the cat-food smell of the hallway, the gurgling sink that won’t drain, the cold metal cane leaning against his chair. The glossy potted plants in Ella’s office. And the constant quiet of almost always being alone.

He’d never realised how alone he was, until now.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he gropes for it with a mix of relief and apprehension -- it has to be Sherlock, no one else ever texts him.

_Hi, is this John Watson? I had your number in my phone. This is Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper’s agent._

John’s mind goes blank with confusion. _This is John, yes. Everything ok?_

_Yeah. Is Molly at your place? I was going to take her to an event for our publisher._

_She is, yeah. I think she’s meeting with Sherlock._

_OK. Sorry, can you let me in? I’ve texted her and texted Sherlock, but they’re not answering. I’m downstairs, she told me to meet at yours._

John has absolutely no idea what to make of this. He can’t even begin to fathom a logical explanation, apart from the one scenario he’s been trying not to envision.

_Sorry, I’m not home. I can be there in a few minutes, though._

_Oh, apologies, mate. No need, I bet she’ll be out soon._

_It’s fine, I was just on my way back from the pub._ Well, John wasn’t really, but he sure as hell is now.

_Great. Thanks._

_No problem. See you soon._

* * *

In the few minutes it takes to walk from Marylebone High Street back to Baker Street, John invents seven possible explanations for Greg’s messages, none of which are in any way plausible. He also texts Sherlock twice, but gets no response. It’s fine, it’s all fine. John’s sure this is all about to make a massive amount of sense, and also, that he should in no way be as worked up about it as he is.

As he hurries up to the flat, he can see Greg Lestrade leaning against the railing near their front stoop, smoking a cigarette. He’s wearing a dark dress suit, salt-and-pepper hair neatly tamed, and looks far more the part of professional agent than when they’d met the other day in 221B. When he sees John approaching, Greg stubs out his cigarette and holds out a hand with an affable smile.

“Thanks again, mate. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“You didn’t, I was coming home anyway.” John shakes Greg’s hand, and then, before he can help it: “I hope we’re not interrupting anything, either.” He gives a friendly sort of leer, then wants to crawl under the nearest bus.

Greg’s eyes widen slightly and he looks up at the flat, the sitting room lights glowing yellow from the curtained windows. “You don’t think --”

“I’m kidding,” John interrupts, kicking himself. Greg’s taking Molly to a party -- why didn’t he consider that Greg might be with Molly? An agent, a writer... it’s a conflict of interest, but not beyond the realm of possibility.

“Well, to be honest, she can’t stop talking about him,” Greg says. “I thought all the hype about Sherlock Holmes was a load of rubbish, but Molly’s a convert.”

At the look on Greg’s face, John becomes less interested in getting upstairs quickly. “Well. Glad to hear it, I mean, his methods can be a little unconventional.”

Greg gives him a relieved smile that clearly says he’s been waiting to talk to someone about this.“Oh, between you and me, I thought I was going to strangle him when he told her to write this, er, romance thing she’s working on. Thank God you showed up that night, or they might’ve had to call Scotland Yard.”

John laughs.“Believe me, I understand. I’m his flatmate. I’m usually the one contemplating murder.”

Greg’s grin broadens. “You’re a brave man, having Sherlock Holmes for a flatmate. From what Molly says, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean. She says he’s a little -- intense.”

John smiles wryly. “That’s one word for it.”

“But I have to tell you, I’ve known Molly Hooper for years now, and I’ve never seen her write like this before. I don’t have a clue if she’ll finish Hosmer, but she’s going to have a new novel in the bag this year. This month, maybe.”

“This month?”

“Yeah, she’s just -- inspired, I mean, there’s no other word for it. She writes all day and half the night, I think she’s done about sixty thousand words this month. I don’t know where it’s coming from. She doesn’t talk about it much, all she says is that it’s due to Sherlock, that she’s never worked with anyone like him before.”

John’s no expert in reading people, but Greg’s tight smile gives him enough data to make a guess: No, Greg’s not seeing Molly, but he’s thought about it. For a while, maybe.

“Well, Sherlock’s kind of amazing that way. He -- does that, with his clients. I don’t know how.”

“Seriously. With every client?”

“I mean. Not with everyone, no, but he’s got a good track record. He’s definitely helped me.”

Greg shrugs. “Well. I guess they have a -- connection, maybe. She usually talks to me about her projects, calls me up to chat. Not this time.”

The taste of jealousy in John’s mouth is sour and unmistakable. He shouldn’t feel this way, but the thought of another writer having any kind of chemistry with Sherlock is like a physical blow. Which is irrational, and unreasonable, and John needs to stop thinking like this. Certainly John is just one in a long line of writers who’ve steeped themselves in Sherlock’s life, absorbing his brilliance until their stories are done.

John fumbles for his keys. “Well, um. I don’t mean to keep you waiting. I don’t know what’s keeping them.”

“It’s fine, just an event at the publisher,” Greg says as John pushes the front door open. “Maybe she’s nervous, I guess I should’ve thought about it -- but they want to see her, you know, make sure she hasn’t disappeared.”

“Yeah, understood.”

They crowd into the foyer to find Mrs Hudson’s door closed, and the stairwell quiet. John pauses, sending up a brief prayer that his shout isn’t... poorly timed. “Sherlock!”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounds stroppy and annoyed.

John lets out a breath. Sherlock’s immediate response is a relief, but God, how to handle this? Why does John suddenly feel like he’s trespassing in his own flat? “Greg is here, um. For Molly.”

“Greg?”

“Lestrade, Greg Lestrade. Her agent?”

“Oh!” Molly’s voice echoes down the stairwell, and John hears the shuffle of a chair, then footsteps. “Greg! Sorry!”

In less than a minute Molly hurries down the stairs, grabbing for the bannister as she wobbles in her heels. “Sorry,” she says again, breathless. “Were you waiting long? I must’ve turned off my phone.”

At the sight of her, Greg looks nervous and a bit awestruck, but quickly covers it up with a cough. “No, no, it’s fine. John and I were just -- catching up.” He nods at John. Somehow, a flash of understanding passes between them, a silent thumbs-up. “I owe you a pint, mate, for dragging you home from the pub.”

John already knows he wouldn’t mind a night at the pub with Greg in the least. “You didn’t drag me, but cheers. I might take you up on that anyway.”

Greg flashes him a warm grin. “Deal, then. Molly, should we be off?”

“Yes, right. Um.” She turns to look up the stairwell, where Sherlock has neglected to appear, and then back to John. “Tell Sherlock -- thanks. I’ll talk to him -- I mean -- just, thank him for me.”

John nods. “Will do.”

* * *

Sherlock is tapping away on his laptop when John gets back up to the flat. All normal, then, John tells himself, and tries to ignore the odd, tight feeling in his chest. If there were an award for making mountains out of molehills, John would’ve just earned it for crafting a replica of the Alps out of this client meeting.

“Everything okay?” John asks, keeping his voice light as he settles into his armchair.

“Mmm.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock continues to type. Quiet yawns between them, and it should be comforting -- John in his beloved chair, Sherlock focused intently on his work -- but somehow, it’s not. Despite a clamor of inner warnings to leave it alone, John can’t help himself. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up. “What do you mean?”

“Molly. Just now.” John clears his throat. “Telling me I had to leave.”

At this, Sherlock’s eyes finally snap up, and he watches John for a moment. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. I just, you don’t usually -- I mean, you’ve never -- Forget it.”

“You know my methods. Why do you think I sent you away?”

John finds himself wishing desperately he was back in the pub. “I, um. Molly needed privacy?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows arch upward. “What a breathtaking grasp of the obvious.”

“But that hasn’t been an issue before. I’ve sat in on the rest of her meetings.”

Sherlock sighs. “And what did you observe?”

John has absolutely no idea where this is going. “I -- don’t know, she’s just another client. She’s usually a little nervous, but once she starts talking about her story, she forgets I’m there.”

“Exactly.”

A beat of silence. John gestures in surrender. “I give up.”

“Molly Hooper, as you’ve seen, is prone to anxiety,” Sherlock says, setting his laptop down on a side table and leaning back in his chair. “Nearly crippling anxiety, which I think you might understand. But if she can be distracted, she forgets her anxiety and starts writing. Now, how to distract her? She has to be attracted to something. If she’s captivated, her nerves vanish. Now, here’s a writer of spy novels about a dashing hero, heart-stopping cliffhangers -- Molly is clearly attracted to danger, drawn to romance and drama. That’s how we got Hosmer Angel.

But she’s been writing him for years. The danger, the excitement -- it’s started to fade. So she began to think about a new idea, an even more dangerous story, one with a protagonist she found even more attractive. The trouble is, she felt she couldn’t write it. But its forbidden nature made it all the more appealing. And meanwhile, the British public was clamoring for Hosmer. The pressure was paralysing, but more than that, her heart wasn’t in it. She’d found someone else.”

“But if she writes this story, this -- forbidden story. Isn’t there a risk she’ll abandon Hosmer Angel entirely?”

“The crucial step was to get her back into writing. It was a gamble, yes, but one worth taking. The only possible solution.”

“That still doesn’t explain tonight.”

“Molly’s nearly finished with her new novel, and there’s a chance she’ll stop writing again once it’s done. I have to steer her toward Hosmer before that happens. So I took things to a more... personal level.”

John’s hands feel clammy. “You what?”

“Many of Molly’s heroes share similar traits. It isn’t a stretch to adopt some of those traits myself. Asking her to meet alone adds an element of danger. If I can provide her with the distraction she needs, I may be able to sway her towards Hosmer after she drafts this romance novel.”

Sherlock’s words begin to form a truth which threatens to crack John’s calm exterior. “You’re providing her with a distraction. The distraction is -- you.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“And you’re not bothered by doing that.”

Sherlock waves a hand. “Why? None of this is real.”

John barks a laugh. “Of course it’s real, it’s bloody real to Molly Hooper. What are you doing, just leading her on so she’ll do whatever you ask?”

“If it works, yes.”

“But you can’t just -- hang on. Did you come up with this before you’d even _met_ her?”

“I had some suspicions about her personality before we met. I observed her reactions during our first meeting, then adjusted my behaviour accordingly. From there, it’s been a matter of encouraging her to keep writing, while planting ideas for a return to Hosmer Angel.”

John holds up a hand. “So -- wait. You’re telling me -- you guessed Molly might be attracted to you, or at least, some version of you. And you’ve been using that to manipulate her into writing.”

“Well, that’s a rather crude way of putting it, and you’ve missed nearly all the subtleties of the situation, but yes.”

“You don’t find this -- I don’t know, a little bit -- morally questionable?”

Sherlock’s voice hardens. “Getting Molly Hooper to write the next Hosmer Angel book is possibly the greatest literary crisis of this decade. I’d say extreme measures are well within reason.”

“The best sort of puzzle, then,” John says bitterly. “Can’t resist it.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh no, but you’ll just trick some trusting young woman into thinking you’re pining for her, and that’s not problematic to you in any way.”

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes glitter, bright and cold. “No, it’s not.”

“Well.” John nods, straightens in his chair. He feels sick. “Just so we’re clear on that, then.”

Sherlock sits up straight, his frame coiled with tension. “It’s not a problem,” he growls, “because I’m saving her _life_. Or are you too thick to see that?”

John’s mouth goes dry. “I don’t --”

“Molly Hooper has been in danger of breaching her contract. She’s been consumed by the pressure of her situation, and she’s dangerously close to ending her own career. Before I intervened it looked like she might never publish another novel. The end of Mary Sutherland.” He glares at John. “Writers are their own worst enemies, or don’t you know that by now?”

John swallows.

“I save writers from themselves,” Sherlock says, low and quiet. “But I don’t make the mistake of caring about them. Caring about them will not help save them.”

Something at John’s core goes very cold. He finds he can’t meet Sherlock’s gaze any longer.

“Whatever it takes,” he says.

“Precisely,” Sherlock answers.

John drops his head into his hands, leans forward, elbows on knees. It feels a bit like he’s been scraped dry from the inside. Like the wind could just rush through him if they opened the sitting room window.

He hears the sound of Sherlock opening a laptop, and the click of keys. “What sort of pirate ship is it?”

“What?”

“Hook’s ship.”

“How am I supposed to know what the hell kind of ship it is? It’s a pirate ship. It’s got fucking pirates on it.”

Silence. Then, eventually, the tapping of fingers on a keyboard.

John raises his head at last. Sherlock’s only partially focused on his laptop, and when John looks up, Sherlock’s eyes slide over to watch him. He looks -- well. John can never tell what Sherlock’s thinking. He can only guess. This time, he’s got nothing.

“Sorry,” John says.

“It’s all right.”

“It’s, um.” John clears his throat. “It’s a big ship, you know. Crew sleeps downstairs, it’s got a lower deck. Three masts, I think. A plank. A big cannon.”

He knows this tactic. Sherlock gets him talking, draws out information like pulling smoke through a pipe, and it all begins to unfurl in John’s mind, clearer and clearer until he can’t help but write it down.

He wonders what else Sherlock is doing to get this story out of him.

“Good,” Sherlock murmurs. “What else?”

“You’re on board now, but I’m waiting. I’ve got to give you a decent lead, and then I’m going to sneak on board after you.”

Sherlock hums in assent. “And then.”

John feels himself surrender. So much easier, to think about the story. To let himself fall into it again, hide from the look in Sherlock’s eyes.

“And then you’re captured by Moriarty. But I don’t know that yet.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, all, for bearing with me during a very extended hiatus. I know Sherlock fans are used to long waits, but I didn't intend to make this wait quite so long! Thank you, also, for your lovely and patient comments on previous chapters. They definitely kicked me into gear when I was finally able to get back to writing.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, the invaluable Esterbrook, Maz, & Mel.


	10. Chapter 10

John waited the requested twenty minutes beneath the shade of a large, vine-tangled tree at the edge of the cove. Or at least, as close as he could estimate, given his lack of watch, and the fact that he was on an island where time didn’t necessarily want to behave.

In those twenty minutes, he watched quiet waves lap up on the powdery beach. He also decided that their plan might have a few flaws: for one, he had no idea how to board the ship without being seen. Also, he had no way to communicate with Sherlock once on board. Neither of them was armed or in any way prepared for a confrontation. So, a few minor issues.

But there was nothing for it. He’d agreed to help, even though it seemed insane. The exit to this story was hundreds -- if not thousands -- of miles away, should they need to escape. John wasn’t even sure they could get back at all, if by some chance they managed to foil Hook and free the children. But that seemed a small problem compared to the behemoth of a ship in front of him, and the pirate captain likely waiting there.

No, this was certain death, which is why it didn’t make much sense that John felt strangely exhilarated about the idea.

So, in the end, John shed his long wool overcoat, left it neatly folded under the tree, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to the elbows, and set out toward the Jolly Roger.

Sherlock, who could still fly without issue, had skimmed over the water to the ship and pulled himself over a railing. John wasn’t sure he could manage the same approach. He tried to will himself back into the air, but his rattling nerves only got him an arm’s length above the ground, sputtering like an old jalopy with a flat tire. Since the cove seemed completely deserted, he decided to simply walk as close to the ship as he could and then attempt a short flight across the water.

All the while, the island continued to distract him, teasing him with possibilities. Just a little description -- a few more trees would look lovely on the far side of the beach. A school of flying fish would be perfect, skipping over the ocean just past the mouth of the cove. Surely a plume of smoke would wind its way up from the jungle soon, evidence of a native tribe’s afternoon celebration. Neverland hung heavily over his shoulders, whispering in his ear, trying to convince him to come out to play.

John pushed it away, swatting at persistent tendrils of ideas, and made his way down the beach.

Once he’d walked as close as he dared, he hovered over the shallowest part of the water, then took a breath and flew toward the ship’s shadow.

His flight was wobbly, but manageable. Soon enough the vessel loomed over him like some sinister creature just surfaced from the deep. At nearly sea level he was far below the main deck, near a row of dirty portholes piercing the ship’s smooth side. He stopped to listen for voices, but could only hear the gentle slapping of waves against wood. Now or never, then. Spying a rope ladder hanging from a railing, he aimed for it, clumsily caught a rung, and clambered up.

John had been a storyteller for ages, but the sum of his nautical knowledge totalled zero. He was sure there must be a term for the place he’d climbed aboard near the rear of the ship, but whether it was the forecastle or the quarter deck, he had no clue. It was blessedly empty of pirates, which was good enough for John. He spied a few piles of coiled rope near the cabin door and dove behind them, trying to quiet his breathing.

He could hear voices loudly now. He peered from his hiding place to see that figures were milling about on the lower part of the deck, quite close by. Taking stock, he saw that if he crept nearer to the edge of the stairs, he’d have a view of the lower deck from above.

Crouching low, he scrambled from his hiding place and ducked behind a large wooden chest near the side of the ship. Between the worn balustrades, he could see he’d avoided disaster -- the lower deck was swarming with people. As it was, he was in real danger of being discovered, should anyone walk upstairs. He pressed himself close to the floorboards and prayed that his ability to pass unnoticed would hold true.

At least twenty or thirty pirates stood assembled, some nearly within arm’s length. Clusters of children huddled among them, mouths gagged. Ropes restraining the children snaked over the deck in every direction. An enormous shaggy dog slumped near the ship’s central mast, draped in heavy iron chains, all four feet shackled. A recognizable figure stood in the centre of it all, feet planted defiantly, dark coat flaring in the breeze. His hands were bound, and two enormous, scowling pirates were planted at each of his shoulders, gripping the cutlasses tied at their waists.

So. Not going too well so far.

John swallowed, feeling his throat constrict.

“Well, this is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” said a refined, plummy voice.

A door closed, and a man strode out from the cabin directly beneath John’s vantage point, steps echoing heavily on the wooden planks. John didn’t need to see his face to know him exactly, from his scarlet coat to the feathery purple plume atop his tri-corner hat. The man walked slowly across the deck and stopped in front of Sherlock, in the eye of the hurricane of pirates and children. Then the man clasped his hands behind his back: or, rather, he gripped his own wrist just above the twist of iron that curled from his lacy sleeve.

“None of this is necessary,” Sherlock said, clear and resonant. “Set them free. Take me instead.”

The children, who had been squirming, went still.

“Where would be the game in that?” Hook said, sizing up his quarry with obvious glee. His chest puffed out, he stood even taller than Sherlock, as if sheer delight had added inches to his height. “Where would be the _fun?_ ”

“The game will be over if these children are not allowed to safely return home.”

“You misunderstand the terms. The children _are_ the game, Sherlock.”

“This is not a game I’m willing to play.”

Cold sludge seeped into John’s veins. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face well enough. The ship rocked gently, every board creaking in a dreamlike lull.

“Oh, you won’t have to see them _all_ killed,” Hook said, with an unfamiliar lilt to his voice. “You know me so well. You know I wouldn’t do that to you, now, would I?”

A short, balding pirate with half-moon spectacles leaned out from next to Hook’s voluminous scarlet coat. “Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n,” he said, “but you know this... intruder?”

Hook gave a long-suffering sigh. “Did I not tell you we were expecting an old friend of mine?”

Smee’s brow crinkled. “Well, sir, you said we were laying a trap --”

“Enough!” Hook swept his arm out to the side, knocking Smee squarely in his round stomach. “We will... _welcome our visitor_ , Smee.”

Apparently, this was the code word the pirates had been waiting for. Hook gestured once with his iron claw of a hand, and the men on deck swarmed into action. Gasps and muffled cries of pain went up all around as the children were dragged to their feet, herded like sheep to standing. John could see the Darling children tangled together, Wendy’s gown torn, her face smudged with dirt and streaked with tears. John Darling’s little wire-rimmed glasses were crooked, one lens cracked down the middle. They looked so small, delicate faces tipped up to look at Hook, mouths gagged with greasy white cloth. The last time John had seen them, he’d been their size.

Peter. Where was Peter? John squinted, scanning faces in the crowd, but he was sure Peter’s presence would be unmistakable. A quiet panic gripped him -- there were the Lost Boys, each one of their dirty faces pinched with terror: Slightly, Nibs, Tootles, Curly, the Twins. And that must be Eliza, the Darlings’ maid, not much more than a child herself, not even meant to be here at all. But no Peter.

At another gesture from Hook, the pirates began to steer the groups of children towards opposite sides of the boat. The Darling children stumbled, hands and feet bound, towards John’s side, while the Lost Boys went the other direction.

Hook crossed his arms in satisfaction. “Lower the planks.”

A tremendous racket and flurry of activity, the sound of wood hitting wood. In a few moments the ship’s railings had been opened like puzzle pieces, with long wooden planks now slotted into place, balancing out over the water on each side of the boat.

All too late John guessed what Hook meant to do.

Hook’s dark curls bobbed as he tilted his head, nearly reptilian, a movement that didn’t seem to suit him. “As you have no doubt observed, we have exceeded our maximum capacity for passengers on board. Measures must be taken to... remedy this.” He rolled the “r” around in his mouth as if tasting a fine wine.

“And as I’ve said, I’ll go where you like,” Sherlock replied cooly. “We need not involve anyone else.”

Hook chuckled. “Charming. Since I know you rather well, forgive me when I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock held up his bound hands. “Then kill me here. Simple.”

“You don’t understand. You’ve robbed me of such fun. It’s been frightfully _boring_ without you, Sherlock. I was hoping you could amuse me for a moment. Indulge me for my troubles. It’s been such an inconvenience, tracking you down like this.”

Sherlock gave him a tight smile. “I’d rather just die now, if you don’t mind.”

Hook sighed, then couldn’t seem to help a fond look in Sherlock’s direction. “Trouble until the end. Well, I suppose that’s all my fault.” He fluttered a hand at Smee, who scurried away, then reappeared with a long, two-pronged cigar holder with a lit cigar smouldering at each end. Hook snatched it and took a long drag, striding toward Sherlock, then blew a plume of smoke into the air scant inches from his face. Sherlock remained impassive.

“You will understand if I want to have a little fun before I destroy my creation,” Hook continued, tapping ash onto the deck.

“You have a right to destroy me. You have no right to destroy a place that’s not yours.”

 Hook shook his head with a slow smile. “I beg to differ. The players are in motion, and now we are bound to see what happens next.”

“You are bound to nothing here. This story doesn’t need your interference.”

“Oh, Sherlock. We know that’s not true.” Hook’s voice dripped with syrup. “Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.”

During this exchange, the pirates had begun to grow restless, faces blank with confusion. “C-Captain --” Smee began, tugging at Hook’s sleeve again.

“Quiet, you dogs,” Hook snarled, mostly at Smee, but glowering all round. Quickly, he schooled his smile back into place. “Patience. Now, it would be rude of me not to explain the rules to our guest, wouldn’t it?”

Murmur from the crowd. Hook’s grin grew more shark-like. “Good. Well.” He swept a hand from one side of the deck to the other. “Two groups of children. Two planks. And one revolting little boy who wouldn’t keep his feet on the ground. Ah -- I haven’t gotten to that part yet, have I? Jukes, show us Long Tom, won’t you?”

A hulking brute of a man, bald head tied with a sweaty red bandana, broke off from the crowd with his teeth bared in a grin. He hustled to the side of the deck closest to John, where Long Tom, the ship’s infamous cannon, sat propped in a gap in the railing. Grunting and straining, he pushed at it until its wheels began to roll backward, and it rotated toward the crowd. John’s breath caught.

A boy was lashed to the end of the cannon, nearly invisible in a tunic of green-brown leaves, his mouth gagged like the rest of the children. He raised his head weakly, but the set of his chin was defiant, bright eyes glittering. His pale limbs were bound with far more rope than seemed necessary. At the sight of him, John’s chest swelled with joyous recognition and despair all at once.

“You will have the honour of making a choice for us,” Hook said, triumph nearly cracking his composed veneer as he turned back to Sherlock. He gestured to each side of the ship in turn. “Two planks, as I said. A group of children for each. And we have Long Tom.” Hook nodded to Jukes, who slowly began to rotate the cannon back into position.

“Cap’n, you won’t be forgetting the dog?” Smee supplied, with some trepidation. He glanced at the dejected animal chained to the mast as if he’d rather like to forget the dog himself.

“Of course not. And we have this... animal. Starkey?”

The pirate named Starkey, standing at attention nearest poor Nana, took a step back. He pulled a large revolver from a sash at his waist and pointed it at the unmoving dog, who looked up at him with baleful eyes.

Hook paced back and forth, surveying the scene, dragging on his cigars with a widening smile. “Now,” he said, “as my guest, you may choose which of these children will not die. On my mark each group will walk the plank, and the cannon will be fired. The child you choose will stand by and watch.”

“Or dog,” Smee added.

“Or dog.” Hook shot Smee a withering look. Smee cowered. Hook looked around again as if expecting applause. When he did not get it, he smiled wanly, then raised a finger. “Ah, and lest we forget. The boy tied to the cannon will not be one of the choices, as he is not a child, or so he told me. He is -- hmm. ‘Youth,’ or ‘joy,’ or some such nonsense. Thus, not eligible.”

“But the dog isn’t --” Smee began.

“Silence!” Hook barked. “On my mark.”

John was so stunned by the scene unfolding below him that he’d almost forgotten he was meant to take part in it. Hook’s command jolted him out of numb shock as the pirates dragged the frightened, shaky knots of children toward each side of the deck.

Sherlock was going to die. They were all going to die.

They’d been so foolish, thinking they had a chance. As if John could make a difference, as if he could fix any of this.

Moriarty was controlling Hook, somehow speaking through him, although John had no idea how he’d accomplished it. It didn’t matter -- John had heard enough to know that Moriarty was genuinely insane. Not content to simply take Sherlock with him, he’d set up an endgame designed to torture him first, and destroy the story in his wake. Because he could. Because storytellers had that sort of power.

John knew. He had destroyed things, too.

Sherlock lifted his chin.

Hook stepped forward and ran the edge of his iron claw along the line of Sherlock’s jaw. He leaned in, and for one horrible moment it looked as if he might kiss him. He didn’t. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, then licked a long stripe from Sherlock’s jaw to his ear.

John’s vision went nearly white. His hand fumbled for his trouser pocket before he even registered the motion. He could _not_ do this, he was _not doing this --_

His fingers closed around his pen just as Sherlock flinched visibly, and his notebook slid into his other hand. He had one last eclipsing thought of panic before the pen dragged itself across the page.

_With panic came a strange sense of clarity. As John tried to steady himself, he realised that the wooden chest he’d been crouching behind was half-open. Raising his head by inches, he peered inside to find a jumbled pile of discarded weapons._

Time slowed, spinning into a malleable, familiar state. The scene stilled around him, falling silent until he was the only one in motion. A cold sweat stood out on his brow. Jesus Christ. He was doing this. He’d told himself he never would, and here he was.

He stood up slowly, pen and notebook in hand. The deck below displayed a bizarre tableaux, all the players motionless. A lecherous grin pulled at Hook’s aquiline features as he hovered inches away from Sherlock. Oh, _God_. John had to look away.

They weren’t entirely frozen, John knew. Just slowed, in the way that a sheet of glass appears solid, but is still technically liquid. They would continue to move fractionally, but John had the space and time to move between players, make adjustments, add and take away. It wasn’t his story, of course, so it would not bend and shift wildly when he touched it, but he could work at it nonetheless.

But he hadn’t intended to do this at all. Even half a minute in this state, in this heady time-slowed stillness, was too much. The sheer power of it felt like a fever, achy and delirious. So much potential to go wrong.

He just needed a weapon, that was all. One tiny change.

John reached inside the chest and pulled out a scuffed yet serviceable revolver. The cold weight of it felt heavy and comforting in his hand. He shoved it into the waistband of his wool trousers and made to crouch back down, but --

He could just go down the stairs, unseen. That would be enough. It didn’t even have to be well-written, or plausible, he could just --

_Taking advantage of the pirates’ distraction, John seized his chance and crept down the stairs. They weren’t expecting him, and one more moving body didn’t stand out in the chaos. He made for the cannon, where two pirates were busily readying the ropes to lash it into place, and sidled up behind one of them._

John shoved pen and notebook into his trouser pocket with shaking hands. Time lurched forward. The pirate in front of him swung into motion, stooping to check a knot in the rope. John pulled the revolver from his waistband, raised it up, and brought it down heavily on the back of the pirate’s head.

The pirate collapsed, his breath escaping in a surprised huff, and rolled onto the deck. John ducked down behind the cannon, blood rushing in his ears. Christ. He had _not_ meant to start writing. Instinct had kicked in so hard when he saw Hook touch Sherlock that he didn’t even remember deciding to write. It had just -- happened.

“You waste my time.” Hook’s refined accent resonated across the deck. “Play the game.”

A strange calm settled over John, as if he’d broken through the surface of deep water. He might not have meant to write, but he’d done it. And now he had a _gun_. Hopefully it would be enough.

All around him the deck echoed with barked commands and stumbling footsteps. He ignored it. Instead, he stood up again, cocked his revolver, and stepped around the cannon to meet the pirate on the other side.

It took a moment for the sight of John’s fully armed revolver to register on the pirate’s snaggle-toothed, sooty face. John could see the exact second that neurons connected: the pirate’s eyes popped, and his jaw slackened.

John didn’t speak, just gestured with the gun. Given the pirate’s slow reaction time, he hoped his gesture was easy to understand, but apparently this pirate spoke gun language just fine. He stumbled into a kneel at John’s feet, and, muttering an apology, John gave him a hard whack with the gun’s barrel. John knew these pirates: they were stupid, but not unreasonably cruel, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to cold execution. The pirate obediently collapsed, unconscious, and John’s nerves trilled faintly with hope.

Quickly, he knelt down, shoved the gun back into his waistband, wrestled the hat from the pirate’s head, and jammed it onto his own. If he was lucky, he’d blend into the ship’s crew as long as no one looked too closely. The hat smelled of sweat and sea water, and John pushed it out of his eyes as he began to work the pirate’s cutlass free from its sheath. In a moment he had the cutlass in hand and was eyeing the tangle of ropes that criss-crossed over Long Tom.

“Why kill all these children?” A hint of spirit had crept back into Sherlock’s voice, buoying John’s fragile hope. “I’m curious. Isn’t this... terribly bad form?”

Praying they’d keep talking, John studied the mass of ropes lashed around the cannon. He’d have to guess which ones to cut. He grabbed one of the smaller, newer ropes and began to hack at it with the cutlass --- at least, as inconspicuously as one could hack at a rope with a cutlass.

Hook’s voice drifted over the deck, enunciating each syllable as if to amplify any blue in his bloodstream.“They are my prisoners, Sherlock. I have offered you the privilege of saving one. It would be bad form not to take it.”

One of the ropes snapped free under John’s blade. He moved to the next, sawing at it frantically, his thoughts a single-minded litany: Please. Let no one notice. Just a few more minutes.

“You’re lonely,” Sherlock stated, after a moment.

The general tumult on the deck stilled. John could almost feel heads swivelling in Sherlock’s direction. He wondered if Sherlock knew he was there, if Sherlock was gambling that John needed more time for the daring rescue he was going to somehow pull off. By himself. With no problems at all.

Right.

Or maybe Sherlock was just hoping to postpone the inevitable.

“You can surround yourself with people anytime you like, but none of them are like you, are they?” Sherlock said, almost as if to himself. “None of them understand you at all. So you amuse yourself, hatching intricate plans, making up games, anything to stave off boredom. These little games, these plans, they’re all you have. And at the end of a day you have to start again, a refined mind trapped in a children’s tale. You can command a crew, capture anyone you like, but they don’t think like you, they’ll never understand you. Alone on a crowded ship.”

“Enough,” Hook said weakly, as if he’d temporarily forgotten his usual air of command.

John was desperate to see what was happening, whether Hook was still poised with the point of his claw ready to rend Sherlock in two. But he kept at the ropes, not daring to turn around.

“It all makes sense now. Is that why you haven’t killed me yet? Finally, someone to talk to, someone who’s not a pirate or a child. You don’t really want me dead, not right away. You’re keeping me alive, giving me a choice because you want to see what I’ll do. You want to have a conversation with someone who may have actually gone to university.... Ah.” Sherlock’s voice dropped into a low purr. “Or maybe you want something more.”

A drop of sweat ran down between John’s shoulder blades, and with it, a sick, cold chill. He could not think about what Sherlock might be doing, what might be happening behind his back.

“You’re stalling for time.”

“Why? Why would I do that? There’s no one here but us. You don’t even know why you set this up, did you? You just knew I was coming. You had a feeling. Didn’t stop to examine your reasons, just flew off to find your bait and lay a trap. But now you’ve got me, you should think about what you really wanted with me in the first place.”

John nearly jumped when the last rope snapped under his knife. The length of it slithered across the deck and vanished over the side of the ship. Trying to ignore the nausea that welled up at Sherlock’s words, he scrambled forward, knelt down by the open railing, and listened.

There was no splash.

“Enough,” Hook snarled again, sounding shaken. “Choose, or they all die with you.”

A sharp, impish face popped up next to the cannon, eyes blazing with triumph. John stared, then beamed at him, some long-lost recognition flaring as they regarded each other. It had been such a long time.

Peter’s mouth was still gagged. In wordless agreement, John wrenched the knotted cloth from the tangle of Peter’s red-brown curls as Peter bobbed effortlessly at the side of the ship, just below the level of the deck. When the gag was off, John held out the cutlass by its handle.

Peter grinned and took it, tilting his head to one side as if John was a child just his age. “What’s your name, again?”

“John. Look, they’re about to --”

“Behind you,” Peter hissed, and then shot straight up into the air.

Chaos exploded around them.

* * *

 “There’s too much going on here.”

“That is, by definition, _chaos._ ”

“You’re not paying attention.” Sherlock jabs a finger at the screen. “Three pirates cornering you, and you’ve got to cross the deck to save me. Isn’t the deck full of people? Haven’t they all got swords?”

“I have a gun, Sherlock.”

“And none of the other pirates have guns?”

John grips a handful of hair in frustration, staring at the file on his laptop. The cursor moves as Sherlock types, and comments pepper the margin of his document like precise razors of thought. John reads one and scowls. “What do you mean, I’ve got the wrong kind of gun?”

“Pirates didn’t use revolvers. They used pistols -- flintlock pistols, pocket pistols, volley guns. I’m sending a link.”

A dull pain begins to throb at John’s temples. Usually, he loves these editing sessions -- there’s nothing more thrilling than Sherlock’s intellect turned up full throttle and focused on his story. But today, something’s off. The past few days have been packed with client meetings and interruptions, and instead of feeling his brain click into step with Sherlock’s, John only feels unsettled and annoyed.

Molly Hooper’s been back twice, meeting in private with Sherlock each time.

Sherlock, for his part, has been distant. Ever since their charged conversation after Molly’s private meeting, he’s avoided discussing her work, even though John had originally been taking notes on her project. Her file currently sits on John’s side of the desk, temporarily abandoned.

“It’s an anachronism,” John says, more than a little petulantly. He sits back and crosses his arms, watching Sherlock across the desk.

Sherlock blinks at him, gears clearly turning. “You deliberately chose the wrong sort of gun, you mean. For a reason.”

John hadn’t meant to choose the wrong sort of gun, of course, but he doesn’t feel like telling Sherlock. “Well, I hadn’t written anything in ages, had I? In the story, that is. And I panicked. So I didn’t get it right.”

A slow grin actually spreads across Sherlock’s face. “Oh, that’s brilliant. You can use that detail to show that there is actually a risk when you write something. You can make mistakes, and this is a reminder.”

An unexpected pang of joy settles in John’s chest, and he grins back. “Exactly.”

Sherlock’s grin twists into a smirk. “Because you _did_ make a mistake. You didn’t actually write that anachronism on purpose.”

John’s attempt at incredulity is doomed before it starts. He opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cuts him off with a chuckle. “Don’t bother. It’s obvious.”

Their eyes meet across the desk, and John tries his hardest not to smile. “Oh, fuck off.”

Sherlock’s chuckle deepens, and this time John can’t help joining in. Damned if Sherlock isn’t always disarmingly brilliant at the very moment John’s ready to throttle him.

For a moment, it feels like the tense knot of the past few days has been loosened between them. Sherlock’s eyes flick back to his screen, and his forehead creases in concentration.

“What are you --”

Sherlock gestures for John to be quiet.

Outside the half-closed curtains, fog hangs over Baker Street like a hand-knit shawl, heavy and uneven. The fire’s burned down to embers, but warmth still lingers in their corner of the sitting room. Sherlock runs a hand through his dark curls, his face lit by his laptop, the arresting dark-and-light of him at odds with the dreary weather. It would be a perfect, perfect afternoon if John wasn’t constantly reminded of how bloody perfect life with Sherlock was. Every day. All the time.

God. If Sherlock was just less -- whatever he is. If John’s life hadn’t been so empty without him. If they didn’t get on so well -- hell, they don’t get on well. They get on like two parts of a whole, and it’s terrifying. It’s almost easier when they’re sniping at each other, if John can maintain some minor grievance just to make things bearable. Because otherwise, they have a connection so profound John can’t wrap his mind around it. It’s both perfect and completely intolerable.

Intolerable, because it might not be real. Because Sherlock could be playing him just as expertly as he’s playing Molly Hooper. He might be crafting a version of reality precisely for John, and there’s no way of knowing. It’s not as if he can ask Sherlock if their intense friendship has just been a ploy all this time.

The worst of it is, John can’t figure out which option is more terrifying: fiction, or truth.

It seems real, though. Christ, it really does.

“This bit, here, where we’ve started fighting. If I turn to attack the pirate, I’m pivoting to my left, with a sword in my right hand.”

“Yes? I don’t know.”

“You should know.”

John sighs. “Does it matter?”

“Well, some details are incidental, and some are vital. But I’d say it might be moderately important to make sure your characters have two hands apiece. I seem to have grown a third in this fight.”

“Oh, hell. Let me see.”

John skims over the choreography of the fight scene, cursing the asinine part of his brain that decided he should write a pirate ship battle in the first place. True enough, he’s said that Sherlock’s hands were bound together, and then mentioned a few paragraphs later that Sherlock pulls out a sword. He rearranges a few things, managing to leave Sherlock with two free hands, a sword, and no bothersome extra limbs. By the time he finishes his edits, he looks up to see that the real Sherlock has lapsed into intense concentration, fingertips pressed together under his chin as his eyes flick back and forth over John’s open document.

“Okay?” John ventures.

“Something’s... off,” Sherlock murmurs, not looking up.

“I fixed the hand thing, should be fine now.”

Sherlock’s silence tells John that the sword edit is irrelevant.

John knows Sherlock’s silences quite well by now, having sat in enough client meetings to catalogue most of them. There’s the pause John likes to think of as “I’m waiting for you to speak so you may incriminate yourself as an idiot.” There’s the long, hard stare, under which most writers wilt until they stammer out the problem with their current project. The bitter exhale, which usually means it’s best for a client to leave. And there’s the intent, weighty silence that lengthens while the fire cracks, Sherlock’s fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes fixed on a far-off point. It’s this brand of silence John recognises now, the silence that means Sherlock’s actually thinking, and thinking hard.

John’s story has not yet merited this sort of silence.

Trying not to think about what this might mean, John tweaks a few more words, decides he hates the whole damn fight scene, and does a cursory search for pirate weaponry. Of course Sherlock is right about the gun. Bastard.

John gets up, puts the kettle on, and washes the few dirty dishes left in the sink. When the kettle clicks off, he makes them tea, then wanders back into the sitting room and sets Sherlock’s tea on the desk by his elbow.

“I could order takeaway,” he offers.

A grunt of acknowledgement. Sherlock leans forward, scrolling through John’s document, his brow furrowed. “Something’s missing,” he says, at last.

John isn’t sure whether to feel relief or anxiety. He settles for confusion as a reliable middle ground. “What’s missing? You’ve kept track of every possible detail.”

“Not missing, no.” Sherlock, as if finally remembering he’s addressing another human, blinks and looks up. “Lacking, perhaps.”

John settles back into his seat, apprehension perhaps the mildest word for the feeling that’s taken hold. “Something’s lacking. Okay.”

“You’re writing action, of course, so there can’t be much time for interaction in this scene, but it feels like I’m a bit -- cardboard.”

John’s unsettled nerves snap without warning. _“Cardboard.”_

Sherlock waves a hand. “Dark anti-hero, sharp intellect, manipulative yet charismatic. You’re drawing from plenty of appealing tropes. But that’s all on the surface.”

“Think you’re an appealing trope, do you? Could’ve fooled me.”

“You have a remarkable knack for missing anything of substance in my comments. Your character development has stalled. You need to go deeper.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Our characters talked in the nursery. There’s been quite a bit of development, I don’t see what you’re talking about.”

“And now I’m telling you, the development hasn’t gone any further.”

“It’s my point of view.” John doesn’t intend for his voice to rise, but it does. “This part of the story happens to be a series of action scenes, all from _my_ point of view. Are we supposed to pause for some touching interlude just so you can have your little spotlight?”

“Not at all.”

“Then what the hell are you on about?”

“You should know what my character is thinking all the time, even if the story isn’t from my point of view. Have it in the back of your head in every scene. Let it inform what you write.” Sherlock pauses. “I can tell you’re not doing that.”

“And that’s going to make a difference in a fight scene on a pirate ship.”

“It’s going to make a difference in any scene, yes.”

John gives an incredulous laugh. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t quite see the point. Three hands, yeah, that’s worth fixing. But I’m supposed to envision your every thought while you swing a sword?”

“Why is that so hard?”

“I just don’t see what the hell it has to do with anything.”

“Because it’s the difference between a world that’s alive with real characters, and a world where one character walks through a stage set with paper cutouts.”

John feels his eyebrows climb higher, his blood pressure following suit.“So my story’s just a stage set, is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m not saying that it is. I’m saying --”

“Oh no, you’re not saying that, you’re just heavily implying it.”

“Why are you suddenly unable to take criticism?”

“I don’t know, why are you asking for bloody character work in the middle of a brawl on a pirate ship?”

“You’re missing the point,” Sherlock bites out. “It’s not just about this scene, it’s a general feeling. You’re holding back.”

John sits up straighter in his chair. He feels his jaw clench. “I’m holding back.”

“It’s impossible to show you an example of a single sentence, of a single paragraph. But yes, I think you are.”

Silence settles, and suddenly it’s one silence too many. John flexes one hand. Opens it. Curls it into a fist again. Looks down at it, then back at Sherlock.

“I think you’re right,” he says evenly. “You’re spot on. Well done, Sherlock. That’s a brilliant observation. Some top-notch editorial work.” He can’t help a tiny, brittle smile. “Did you ever think that maybe -- just maybe -- I’m having trouble with that, because I never have any _fucking_ idea what you’re thinking?”

Sherlock blinks, wide-eyed. John’s too keyed up to enjoy the fact that he’s managed to surprise Sherlock for once.

“I live with you, I work with you, I’m writing you into this bloody story for reasons I still don’t understand, and I don’t know what you really think about any of it. You know everything about me, but I don’t know anything about _you_ , Sherlock, not really. We get along, we seem to have some kind of compatibility, but apart from the fact that you tolerate me, I don’t have a clue what’s going on in your head most of the time. And you’re telling me I’m the one holding back? You’re telling me I don’t know what you’re thinking? You’re right. I don’t.”

John stops, his mouth dry. It feels as if his thoughts have just blown through all major security checkpoints and vaulted out of him in a bid for freedom.

Shit.

He turns away from Sherlock’s stunned gaze. At some point he must have gotten up, his feet pacing of their own volition. Maybe his feet should just walk him downstairs and out the door.

How is he such an idiot? What choice does he have now, than to endure the awkward decline of their friendship? How has he managed to fuck up the best thing that’s ever happened to him?

Sherlock is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. _Jesus._

Sherlock’s subdued voice interrupts John’s panic. “Is this about Molly?”

John turns back, desperately wishing for a rewind button. “No. Yes. I don’t know. Just -- I’m sorry. Forget it. Forget what I said.”

Sherlock nods, then closes his laptop. “I’ve never had another roommate.”

Maybe this is German, or Swedish, or some other language John doesn’t understand. “What?”

“Mycroft and I did not share a room as children. He’s seven years older than I am, and he was away at school for most of my childhood. When I got to Eton, I had my own room, as every student does. I never sought out a flatmate at university, or during my graduate studies, or at any time after that. And I have never chosen to hire another assistant, for any reason, at any time.”

John lets the weight of this statement settle over him, baffled. “Oh.”

“I had assumed,” Sherlock continues, “that you knew this.”

“I -- but. I haven’t even known you that long.”

Sherlock stares out the window at the lifting fog. “You know me better than anyone.”

John is blown sideways by this comment, delivered casually, as if Sherlock hasn’t just flipped the universe on end. He doesn’t even know how this can possibly be true: their connection is relatively recent. They’ve had entirely separate lives, past histories. John went to _war_ , for God’s sake. That was two or three lifetimes ago, at least.

“You must have -- friends,” he says. “Everyone has -- I mean. You’re a huge success in your field, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick back up to John’s. “I don’t have ‘friends.’ I just have one.”

They blink at each other for a moment.

John’s heart does a funny little lurching thing in his chest. “Um... thank you.”

Sherlock nods, and studies the view out the window again.

John finds his desk chair and manages to settle back into it. It feels like every involuntary noise he makes is painfully loud. He clears his throat, and it’s like the rumble of a truck in his ears.

Sherlock glances back at him. “I’m willing to answer questions.”

John is still trying to pull himself together. “You mean, um. About you.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

A minute passes before John realises Sherlock’s waiting for him to say something. “Oh. um. Sorry. Was I supposed to --”

“No, it’s -- it’s fine.”

“Did you want me to -- ask you something?”

A fraction of Sherlock’s usual snappish tone returns. “Obviously.”

“Okay.”

For two people supposedly skilled with words, they’re proving to be abysmal at using them right now. “You went to Eton,” John says, seizing on the only bit of new information he can remember, and damn, that’s not even a fucking question, is it?

Sherlock goes with the topic anyway, looking relieved to shift the subject. “Eton, yes, then Oxford, tremendously predictable. My brother did the same.”

“And you read English at university?”

“Actually, no. Chemistry.”

John stares. “Chemistry.”

The stifling awkwardness in the room begins to dissipate. Sherlock half-smiles. “Why is that surprising? I frequently visit laboratories for research. I’m often asked to consult on books that involve scientific topics.”

“I just -- you’re an editor.”

“Well, yes.”

John gives him the sort of look that implies that Sherlock should continue to explain. When he doesn’t, John sighs. “I think it’s a natural assumption that you would have read English at uni, if you edit books for a living.”

“I didn’t set out to be an editor. It was happenstance.”

“Ah. So here’s the part where you explain a bit more, then.”

An eyebrow. “I did it to spite my brother.”

John smirks. “I’d say you were having me on, but somehow I believe you.”

“I read Chemistry at school, thinking I would go into research and specialise in psychotropic medications. I went quite far in the field and pursued a doctorate, but I became bored with the pace of academia. I alleviated my boredom by... experimenting.” Sherlock pauses. “It wasn’t my wisest decision.”

A horrific light bulb clicks on in John’s mind. “Drugs?”

Sherlock nods. “Several of those years are fairly hazy in my memory. I think I may have moved to London... Mycroft lost track of me for a bit. When he found me, he packed me off to a facility where I didn’t have much choice but to recover.”

John has gone a bit slack-jawed without realising. Sherlock is an addict, and he’s telling John about it with the same casual intonation he’d use to order supper at a restaurant.

“Are you, um. That is -- are you okay?”

“If by that you mean, am I harbouring a secret stash of heroin in that slipper by the fireplace, the answer is no. I’ve been clean for years. Mycroft, however, has never gotten over it. He still stalks me as if I’m about to escape down a back alley and seek out my dealer. I believe you were a victim of his extreme degree of paranoia.”

John chuckles, despite himself. “Yeah, I have to say, that makes a lot more sense now.”

Sherlock smiles thinly. “Well. Now you have an idea of what it’s like to live under my brother’s thumb. He forbade me from going back to university, not that I wanted to. No, after my so-called fall from grace, he attempted to groom me to follow him into his line of work. He’s always been convinced I’d be a tremendous success at it. Mostly, I think he wanted to keep an eye on me. And he wanted someone else to do his legwork. Terribly lazy, my brother.”

John doesn’t have a clear idea of what Mycroft Holmes does, but for a moment he has a flash of Sherlock in a dark suit, reading a diplomatic situation just as easily as he reads a client or a first draft. Drug issues aside, no wonder Mycroft was desperate to get him on board. “But you didn’t want to do that.”

“God, no. But I had a distraction pop up in the nick of time. My brother had been keeping me gainfully employed by asking various family members to pay me for odd jobs. It wasn’t as if I was tremendously marketable as a recent drug addict. I ended up reading through a manuscript for a first cousin who fancied herself a writer. Her book was horrendous, but I found I enjoyed the process of telling her so.”

John rubs his forehead with one hand. “I can imagine.”

“To her credit, she didn’t mind the criticism, and produced a much-improved second draft. She passed my name on to a family friend, and I edited his manuscript. That novel won the Booker Prize.”

“Jesus. Wow.”

“Yes. After that, I began to get steady work. Initially I kept at it because I knew how much it infuriated my brother. He’d saved my life, but that led him to believe he had carte blanche to plan out the rest of it. He eventually offered me a position with his employer, at great personal expense, but I refused it. He still takes the success of my career as a personal affront.”

John lets all of this sink in. They share a few minutes of quiet, broken by the occasional honking horn from the street below.

“Is there, um. Anything else I should know?”

Sherlock meets his eye from across the desk. “I play the violin.”

“That was you, the other day? I thought it was one of Mrs Turner’s.”

“I’ve always said your powers of observation need work.”

“Oh, thanks. I was going to say it was lovely, you great wanker.”

Sherlock inclines his head, looking pleased. John nearly implodes with affection for him, and then tries not to panic at this unexpected swell of emotion.

“Is that all, then?” Sherlock asks impishly.

John feels wrung out, shaky, tingling all over with uncertain happiness. He wonders if Sherlock has ever talked like this with anyone, or if this is all just for John’s benefit, because he senses John wants to be close to him. That John wants to have a special place in his life.

Because John wants this, whatever this is, this feeling, this heady rush of connection he’s never felt with another person. He wants Sherlock’s confidence, his trust. He wants long afternoons talking about everything and nothing. He has never wanted anything so badly in his life.

It feels real, he tells himself. This thing they have. Whatever this is, he wants to believe in it.

“Drug addict, violinist,” John ticks off on his fingers. “Unless you’re an axe murderer, I think I’ve heard enough for one afternoon.”

“Sadly, no. Fascinating technique, but I much prefer poisoning.”

John can’t help an inelegant giggle. “Unsurprising.”

Sherlock chuckles a little. He considers John for a moment, a quick scan of his too-sharp eyes. “Helpful?”

“Oh, God.” John shakes his head. “Don’t tell me all of this was just to help me with my story.”

The flicker of guilt in Sherlock’s eyes is enough to make John sit up straight. John gives him what he hopes is a withering look. He wants to be mad, he should be bloody _furious_ , but for some reason he’s having the opposite reaction. Sherlock is devious and delightful, and John could nearly kiss him for it.

 _This must be what it feels like to go insane_ , John thinks.

Sherlock looks suitably sober. “It wasn’t just to help with the story. You made a very valid point. I was trying to rectify it. I’m not used to --” he waves a hand, then trails off. “You know.”

“Making conversation?” John arcs an eyebrow. “Speaking to other human beings out of interest, and not just because they’re paying you?”

He knows Sherlock won’t take his jibe as an insult. And he doesn’t. “Exactly.”

“Well. I suppose I’d best carry on having trouble with my book, then, if it keeps you talking.”

“Mmm. I suppose.”

They grin stupidly at each other. The desk is far too small, and Sherlock’s closeness is distracting. His long eyelashes are tipped with afternoon light.

And then Sherlock gestures at John’s laptop, businesslike. “Go on, then. Carry on having trouble.”

“Believe me,” John tells him, “that’ll be no problem whatsoever.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas, esterbrook & Mel, for helping me through this (very long!) chapter. And with this chapter, this has officially become the longest Sherlock fic I've written. We're not done yet, not by a long shot, but I have to say thanks and hooray to all of you for being here while I muddle my way through this!
> 
> Much of the Peter Pan setting has been drawn directly from Barrie's original book, and names of characters and places are Barrie's. I tried to tip my hat to his world whenever possible.
> 
> You're welcome to come find me on Twitter ([@marsdaydream](http://www.twitter.com/marsdaydream)) or Tumblr ([marsdaydream.tumblr.com](http://marsdaydream.tumblr.com)) and say hi anytime. I'm always happy to answer questions about this fic. Thank you all so much for reading and leaving comments and kudos, I appreciate it more than I can say. 
> 
> Last but not least, the amazing khorazir created an incredible piece of fanart this month for the Big Ben scene in Chapter 8. Check it out [here](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/140582701003/flying-inspired-by-the-amazing-novel-by).


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